Conversations with Emily Prentiss
by thesoundofasmile
Summary: Each day brings a wealth of conversations with many different people. This is a glimpse into some of the conversations with Emily Prentiss over the years.
1. Stubborn is As Stubborn Does

_Well... here it is. My first foray into Criminal Minds fanfiction. If you're so inclined, leave a review. (:_

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_"Still, I know of no higher fortitude than stubbornness in the face of overwhelming odds." –Louis Nizer_

Emily Prentiss is infuriatingly stubborn. I've seen it in her unwillingness to back down on cases. In her strained relationship with her mother. In her classic "I'm fine!" response when she knows she's not, and we know she's not. In the lack of trust she shows with even us, her closest friends, her family. We see it daily. This stubbornness can make Morgan clench his hands into tight fists in regular intervals to calm himself, and Hotch fix her with his signature glare, willing her to test him further. Reid usually tilts his head slightly and raises an eyebrow. Rossi chuckles and gives up trying to reason with her. Garcia's sheer force of will can once in a while break down her stubborn walls, but it's not often. Her stubbornness usually makes me roll my eyes and shake my head. Usually. This time around, there's no eye rolling and no shaking of my head. This time around I'm hoping her stubbornness pays off. I'm hoping her infuriating inability to recognize when to give up and pack it in is in full force, because right now she's fighting for her life.

The doctors aren't sure which outcome it's going to be. They've sent people out periodically to keep me updated. I don't listen to their sentences. I hear a word here and there, but most of the communication I get from them is non-verbal, and very subtle. A furrowed brow, a slight parting of the lips and intake of breath before speaking, a tiny shrug of the shoulders, crossed arms, shuffling feet. But mostly what I see is the apologetic eyes. I may not be an actual profiler, but you pick up on these things after hanging out with this bunch for a while. Right now, the signs are not all that positive. To anyone else, they would seem calm and professional. To me they seem apologetic. And in this case, apologetic is not good.

My mind has been racing for the few hours she's been in surgery. My phone has been buzzing seemingly non-stop. The ramifications of what's being planned are huge. All the arrangements are being made, most of the details worked out, and a tentative final approval has been given by the higher-ups. Just waiting on the crucial last detail: life or death. Regardless of the outcome, I know what I tell the team will be the same. I just don't know which outcome will make delivering the news harder.

Garcia will react predictably. Tears streaming down her face, she will grab Morgan and hold on tightly. Reid's mind will speed ahead of his feelings, and he will no doubt want an explanation of exactly what happened. Rossi will mourn for his de facto daughter, and having to face losing another colleague. Hotch's knowledge of what's going on won't stop him from feeling an overwhelming sense of loss. Until the ambulance ride, I would have bet on Morgan to grieve the loss of a friend and partner. Now, I know he'll grieve losing his partner, his friend, and someone he loves very deeply. I shudder to think that this might break him. But his anger will win over, I think, and he'll hunt down Doyle with or without permission. I'm not sure how I would react. How I might react. I'll grieve the loss of a best friend whichever outcome happens, that's for sure.

I'm alone in this inner waiting room; the team is holed up in a waiting room a few hallways away from me. I pass the time by alternating between staring ahead blankly with my hands clasped together in my lap, and staring at the scuffed floor with my head resting in my hands. I'm surprised my legs are not shaking, and that my hands are still. Files are strewn about on the chair next to me, underneath my bag. The bottom file holds her file. At least, all I could get clearance for. Her picture, background, certification and training notations, commendations, completed missions. They're all there in some capacity. There's still a lot of information censored, and I wonder just how deep into international secrets Emily got. I wonder if Doyle is the worst of her past.

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A couple more hours pass with few updates, and I begin to wonder if things have taken a turn for the worse. Those non-verbal cues from the doctors updating me flash in my mind, and I feel a tinge of despair take over. I mentally berate myself for that thought. Those are not the kind of thoughts I can afford to have right now, and so I busy myself with organizing the mess of papers in the files. My eyes sweep over the pages, reading but not comprehending anything. A few words jump out at me here and there, and I catch myself chuckling slightly at the long medical history in her file. No wonder she hates hospitals so much, she's spent a ton of time in them. But then I suppose with her line of work, it's unavoidable.

Her line of work. When did it become her line of work? When did I realize that our roles were vastly different? When did that categorization happen?

I feel the small breeze from the swinging door before I hear their footsteps. I glance up and meet the eyes of two doctors. I shove the papers back into the file hastily, place it on the seat beside me and slowly rise from my seat. When they reach me, I can't help but fleetingly shoot them a questioning glance. I know it's foolish. They'll tell me even if I don't ask.

Things move in slow motion, but a thousand moments seem to pass by silently in an instant. The wait to hear the doctors' words could not have felt longer. The air is filled with tension, and it seems thick somehow as I breathe it in.

"She made it. She's critical right now, and it's a long road, but she's alive."

I close my eyes as I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding and feel my body sag with relief. They spew a full medical explanation that I didn't hear or even care to listen to. Feeling a tinge of guilt over holding news from the team, I smile ever so slightly in hope and ask, "Can I see her?"

The words were out of my mouth before I even had time to consider what I was asking. I wasn't even sure that I wanted to see her. But I shake my head at myself. Of course I want to see her. The two doctors glance at each other. One seems to shrug ever so slightly, and the other looks contemplative for a moment. He is still thinking when I met his gaze, and he must have seen my desperation, because he smiles ever so slightly.

"Okay," he says quietly and he beckons me with a small gesture.

I follow them down the various hallways, the files tucked away in my bag that's slung over my shoulder, my phone clutched tightly in my hand. After hours of speeding thoughts, I am surprised when my mind seems utterly blank. I had expected to be inundated with thoughts, but my mind is seemingly, perhaps blissfully, empty. When we reach her, I am struck by how small and how fragile she looks among the mess of tubes, wires, bandages and various machines beeping in rhythm. This is not the Emily Prentiss I know. This is not the woman who carries herself with confidence and class. This is not the woman who goes toe-to-toe with Morgan in his rigorous training. This is not the woman who left to face a dangerous criminal by herself. This is not the woman who curses in any number of languages in frustration. This is not the woman who bravely flirts with and encourages serial killers to coax information from them. This is not the Emily Prentiss I know.

With small and tentative steps I walk toward the chair beside her bed. I place my bag and phone on the chair, and take the last few steps to the bed. I faintly register the echo of footsteps as they move away from me – the doctors must have left. Somewhere along the walk to her room tears had begun to form in my eyes. As I reach a hand out to gently brush a few strands of hair from her face, I feel the tears trail down my face.

"Hey," I say softly. I swallow to try and rid myself of the lump in my throat. It stays lodged.

The only response is the continued beeping of the machines and the steady rise and fall of her chest.

I open my mouth to speak further, but no words form. It's funny really. She and I can gab with Garcia for hours over coffee or wine about just about anything. And here I am, in the moment where she perhaps needs that more than anything, and I can't utter a single syllable. I feel the lump in my throat once more and swallow again in vain to try and make it disappear. What do you say to someone who's just survived being tortured, beaten, and viciously stabbed with a table leg? What do you say to someone who's going to lose everyone that she loves? What do you say to someone who may never live her own life again? Just what can you say?

I grab her hand, and it somehow gives me the strength to speak again.

"You are an incredibly stubborn woman, you know that?" I can't help but let a small laugh escape my lips.

I almost expect her to respond with some witty remark, or roll her eyes. Almost.

"I'm so sorry Em. I... I had to do it. For you. Please understand that. Please. I didn't want this, but it's the only way. We'll catch him and then you can come home. Come home to your family."

My voice is barely a whisper as I try to fight the tears. My hands tremble ever so slightly as I hold back sobs.

"We love you Emily Prentiss. Don't you ever doubt that. Don't you dare forget that."

I give her hand a gentle squeeze and it back on the bed. The monitor's beeping changes rhythm for a moment when I let go of her hand, and I wonder if she heard me. I grab my phone, make the call to the higher-ups with the news, and receive an official approval for the go-ahead. I throw the phone into my bag, and give Emily one last look before I turn quickly and briskly walk out of the room. Any slower, and I fear I won't be able to exit the room at all.

I put my bag on my now vacated chair in the waiting room and take a moment to compose myself. Even if they are stressed and their focus is on Emily, my expressions and body language cannot give me away. I consider wiping away the tears that still have not stopped, but realize it would be a futile effort at best. I take a deep breath and push open the door to the hallways which lead to the waiting room housing the team. With each step I have to steady myself. The team doesn't see me right away, and I take in their worried faces. With another deep breath I step fully into the room and see their eyes meet my gaze. Shock and despair flash across their faces before I can even open my mouth. I close my eyes for what seems like forever to compose myself to deliver this enormous lie and start of what will surely be months' worth of deception. I swallow, feeling the lump in my throat and knowing it will prevent me from being able to speak.

"She never made it off the table."

The words feel like arrows straight to their hearts, and fresh tears make their way down my face as I watch them all break. I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the tears, and replay my conversation with Emily in my head.

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It's been hours since I delivered that terrible news, and the team has all gone. Where to, I'm not sure. I make my way back to Emily's bed and grab her hand with mine. The monitor's rhythm of beeps changes again, and I'm certain she feels my presence. She is still frail and fragile looking, and her heart seems somehow heavier than when I saw her last.

"They're gonna be okay. Eventually. We'll find him Em. I promise you that. I'm not letting this bastard win. We'll deal with Doyle. You just..." I trail off unsure of how to finish.

I sigh and raise the corners of my mouth into a small but tired smile, "You just keep being stubborn."

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_Like I said up top, if you're so inclined, leave a review. :)_


	2. Permutations of a Chess Board

_This conversation is tagged to the episode "The Angel Maker" which includes the infinitely amusing "He's so life-like" comment._

_I should note, sadly Criminal Minds and its associated story lines and characters do not belong to me. I'm just playing in their world for a little while._

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_"The trick is that as long as you know who you are and what makes you happy, it doesn't matter how others see you." –Wendy Mass, Every Soul A Star_

The chess board sits between us on a table in the park. She is focused entirely on the board, eyes sweeping back and forth across the pieces. I've already calculated what move she will make based on the available options, and her playing style. After Gideon left she took his place as my regular opponent, and between the games on the jet after cases and our semi-regular chess and coffee dates in the park, I think I finally have a handle on her playing style. I am busy considering my own moves, given the one she will make.

"Something I can do for you, Dr. Reid?" her voice startles me out of my thoughts.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I said: Is there something I can do for you, Dr. Reid?" she tilts her head to one side and shoots me a questioning glance.

"What? No. I'm just... We're in the middle of a game. Why do you ask?" I stutter. She has an uncanny ability to know when I want to say something. I suppose that comes with our line of work though. But Morgan hadn't noticed, and neither had Hotch or Rossi, or even JJ. Then again, maybe she's just more perceptive. Or maybe I'm just reading into it a little too much.

She chuckles and her eyes seem to laugh mischievously along with her, "Oh my, did I fluster the good doctor?"

I glare in response and look pointedly at the board.

She smiles as she lifts up a knight and makes a move she really shouldn't. I frown at her choice, and my eyes begin flying back and forth across the board, analyzing the options because that move changes everything. It really doesn't make any sense why she'd do that. She's a capable chess player, and can usually give me a run for my money. She's having an off day evidently. Plus, it doesn't fit her style.

"So, what is it?" she asks as she leans back in her chair.

"What is what?" I ask without breaking my concentration on the board.

"What you wanted to ask me."

"I didn't say I wanted to ask you anything," I reply as I move my bishop a few places. "Check."

She leans forward, moves her king and leans back in her chair again, "So you're telling me there's nothing you'd like to ask me?"

I scan the board continuously, different permutations arising with every sweep of my eyes. I look up when I feel her gaze on me. Her face is expectant.

"Yes. No. I mean yes. Well. Now that you mention it..." I trail off as my focus swings to the game once more. I move a pawn this time, "Check."

"Reid..." she prompts, making no move to relocate or protect her king. We don't play with any sort of time limit so it's not necessarily wrong, but it can be infuriating sometimes. She always says chess is not a game of speed, but of patience. I argue chess can be a game of speed, since processing and analyzing time should count for something. She laughed when I told her that, and then asked how she was able to beat me using her snail's pace. I realize I haven't moved or spoken in a few minutes and I bring my eyes up from the board to her. She still regards me with an expectant look, her eyes portraying care and a hint of worry.

"I just wonder how other people see me," I say quickly.

There is a short moment of silence as she considers what I've said, "This is about what I said on the last case, isn't it?"

I shrug in response, and she moves a rook to protect her king.

"You know I have a tremendous amount of respect for you, don't you?"

I don't say anything. I move my queen and take one of her pawns. I shouldn't have brought it up.

Her eyes narrow for a moment, and she moves her own queen, "Check."

I quickly move my king and meet her gaze which I can feel is still on me.

"Reid, I'm serious. You're a remarkable individual, with many unique talents and qualities."

My hands drop to my lap as I look down from the board and her gaze, "Am I really that bad?"

"I don't follow," she replies, her voice quiet and soft.

"You said, "He's so life-like." Am I really that..."

"Super-human?" she suggests as she moves a rook again and smiles. "Yes Dr. Reid, you are indeed superhuman when it comes to analysis and all things academic."

I move a pawn once more.

"However, you are also most definitely human in other aspects."

I raise my eyebrow in a questioning expression.

"Your emotions, your relationships, your wants, your hopes, your dreams," she trails off as she lifts her hand to grab her bishop. "And definitely when it comes to playing chess."

"What?" I respond, confused.

She grins widely and moves her bishop, "Checkmate."

I frown at the turn of events. Apparently I _don't_ know her playing style. My mind recounts each of our moves, analyzing where I went wrong.

"Reid, don't get hung up on it."

For a moment I'm not sure what she's referring to: the chess game or how people see me.

"It doesn't matter how people see you. You know who you are, and your friends know who you are. Trust me when I say we appreciate you for you. You don't need to change to please other people or to fit into the mould of "normalcy" that's been set in society. Doing that never ends well."

As she finishes speaking, I see a flicker of something in her eyes. Recognition or empathy of some kind. I try to imagine in what capacity Emily Prentiss would ever have to worry about fitting in. I dismiss the line of thinking as it goes nowhere, and my gaze lowers to the board.

"Spencer," she says softly as she grabs my hands in hers, stopping my task of setting up the pieces for a rematch. Her use of my first name shocks me. "Look at me."

I slowly shift my eyes from our clasped hands and meet her gaze, which seems to be willing me to accept her words. I smile to let her know I get it. She lets go of my hands and stands, grabbing her purse and buttoning her coat against the slight cold setting into the early evening autumn air. She smiles and gestures for me to do the same. I grab my scarf and coat, and sling my messenger bag over my shoulder, the chess board and pieces safely tucked away inside.

"C'mon handsome, I'll make you dinner," she says wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

"You can cook?!" I ask, astonished.

"What do you mean "you can cook"?!" she exclaims incredulously, stepping away and using air quotes around the phrase.

"Uhh... well..." There is no good way of escaping this for me.

"What did Morgan say?" she asks with a knowing, pointed glare.

"He said there's a reason you eat so much take-out food," I say carefully.

She considers that for a moment, and puts her arm around my shoulders again as her eyes twinkle in mischief once more, "Well you'll just have to be my witness that I _can_ in fact cook, won't you?"

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_A little more light-hearted than the first installment. If you're so inclined, leave a review =)_


	3. Waving Flashlights

_Here's the next chapter. Many thanks to those who reviewed the previous chapters. I find that reviews always seem to bring a smile to my face and brighten my day. =)_

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_"Home is where somebody notices when you are no longer there." –Aleksander Hemon, The Lazarus Project_

I can't believe it. I don't want to believe it. She up and disappeared on us. Did she think we'd let her go without a fight? Not after everything we've been through together. Beatings, shootings, stabbings, drug addictions. Any number of overly nefarious acts by unsubs. Not after all of that. She has to come home. Has to.

My phone rings, and a very quick conversation later, devoid of my usual witty banter, I'm typing away on my keyboard, bringing up her information file on my computer. There's a few numbers listed. Hotch wants me to try them all, so I tackle them one by one, starting with the most recent listing. Each call breaks my heart a little bit more, and each lack of answer wears my hope a little thinner.

Soon there's only one number left and hopelessness is overtaking me. My mind's wheels are spinning frantically, imagining how scared she must be. How alone she must feel. I think of our conversation in the bathroom. I realize now she was saying goodbye. And I hate her for it. I hate that she knew and didn't ask for help. I get why, but... we're a family. Her dirt is our dirt. It's inconceivable for me to imagine life without her. Life without Emily Prentiss, my Emily the Strange, my salsa-dancing, ass-kicking, completely gorgeous brunette, would suck.

I hate change. I've never dealt with it well. And desperately try to avoid it all costs. But this is a big thing. And it's already happening. There's no way to avoid it. She's already trying to do the noble and brave thing, and leaving us behind in the process. The waves of change that will follow from this if it doesn't end well are terrifying. I hate change.

I feel the tears prick my eyes, and I grab a tissue to wipe them away. Bouts of anger wave through me periodically and I squeeze a stuffed, fuzzy unicorn situated on my desk to vent the emotion. It's frustrating how good she is. She knows everything we do, we know next to nothing of what she does. I have faith in the team, I really do, I just hope we get to her in time. I'll never forgive myself if we don't. I should have known something was up. She'd been tense for days. Weeks, even. How did none of us notice?

I remember our last girls' night, or rather remember some of it. I know for sure there was way too much alcohol, and definitely not enough dancing involved. I remember we gabbed about anything and everything for hours. How adorable Henry is, the complex relationship that is Kevin and I and whether or not we'd ever make some babies, Emily's favourite places that she'd travelled to. We'd even begun planning a European adventure for ourselves, Emily promising to act as a translator and guide. That was weeks ago. Had she already known about Doyle then? Was she sleeping with one eye open by that point? Was she sleeping at all? Was she planning her exit?

I take a deep breath to calm my speeding thoughts. One last number and then back into delving into every nook and cranny I can find about our E. I hit the key, and the phone dials the old number. I wait for the familiar voicemail tone, and try to stay calm. The tone sounds, and I realize this may be the last conversation I ever have with her. One-sided or not, whether she actually gets the message or not, this might be the last time I talk to her. Fresh tears crop up and I shut my eyes to stem the flow. I take another breath and begin leaving the message.

"Hey, it's me. Hotch asked me try all of your numbers, and I have this as an old listing and you probably don't even use it anymore but if it is you and you're out there..." I rush through the first part, rambling a little bit, and trail off at the end slightly unsure of what exactly I want to say.

I take a small breath, "Come home. Please."

I hear the desperation in my own voice as I plead with her to come home. Emotion tinges my speech, and I pause for a moment, feeling a wave of anger and frustration with her overtake me, "God Emily, what did you think? That we would just let you walk out of our lives? I am so furious at you right now."

I stop to take a breath and reign in my anger, remembering that she's all alone, and is probably terrified, hiding in some god awful hole in a wall just so she can take out a man who doesn't deserve to be breathing the same air as her. All to save us.

"But then I think about how scared you must be, hiding in some dark place all alone."

A thought crosses my mind as I finish the sentence. She isn't alone, but she doesn't know that. She needs to know that. She needs to know that we can save her. That we can help her. That we _want_ to help her.

"But you're not alone, okay? You are not alone. We are in that dark place with you. We are waving flashlights and calling your name, so if you can see us, come home. But if you can't, then..."

I trail off because despair settles deep inside of me. She needs to come home. We need her to. _I_ need her to. Moments pass by in silence as I wrestle with the pit forming in my stomach and the ache settling into my chest. One more plea for her to stay alive. To come home to us. I picture her listening to this message, and searching it to find strength. Listening to it and finding the resolve to stay alive.

"Then you stay alive," I tell her, my voice breaking once more. But she needs a reason, something to fight for, because knowing her she may have already accepted her death.

"Because we're coming."

And I can't say anymore so I end the call. I pray that we can find her, and save her from this monstrosity of a man, and bring her home safely. Because no matter what she thinks has to be done, her death is not a fair trade for our safety. Not by any means. And so I wipe away the tears, straighten my glasses, and begin doing what I do best: searching every nook and cranny there is, and worrying about my babies.

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_If you so feel like it, leave a review, but I don't hold you responsible for not doing so! =)_


	4. The Buzz

_Thank you again to those who reviewed the last chapter! Your support is appreciated more than you know. This chapter was particularly heart-wrenching for me to write, but I'm fairly satisfied with how it turned out. Happy reading!_

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_"A friend who dies, it's something of you who dies." –Gustave Flaubert_

I round the corner and see her lying on the ground, a piece of wood piercing her skin, perpendicular to her body. Her breaths are shallow, and every small, involuntary movement of her body causes her to wince in pain. Blood seeps from the wound in her abdomen far too quickly, staining her shirt and the ground beneath her. Her hands are handcuffed above her wound, grasped together lightly. Her eyes are staring upward but are unfocused and have a look of emptiness about them. She looks so fragile and broken, a stark contrast to the strong and independent Emily I know. It's unnerving.

I'm not really cognizant of my own actions as I radio with my location and for a medic. Her eyes don't shift from the ceiling, and they remain unfocused and looking dangerously devoid of life.

"Prentiss?" I gently prompt as I kneel next to her.

"Morgan?" she says softly. So softly that it's almost inaudible. It's in a tone of disbelief, like she can't quite believe that we're here for her. Her gaze still doesn't shift from the ceiling, and her eyes don't focus on me.

"Hey, it's me. I'm right here. You're gonna be alright. Stay with me baby, c'mon stay with me," I beg and plead with her as I see the little remaining life draining from her with every passing second.

"Let me go," she utters, again almost inaudible. This time the tone is pleading. Her eyes finally meet mine and plead along with her tone for me to let her go. The effort seems to sap precious energy from her already weakening body. Her eyes close and do not open again. The tension in her limbs is subsiding. Not good signs.

"No. No, I am not letting you go," I say defiantly. "HELP ME!" I scream for the medic, for Hotch, for anyone.

"Listen to me. I know why you did all of this. I know what you did for Declan."

At his name her eyes open ever so slightly and she meets my gaze once more. Pain, sadness and regret swim in her dark eyes, and moisture begins to form in the corners.

"I am so proud of you. Do you understand that? I am proud of you because you are my friend and you are my partner," I hear my own voice wavering with emotion, and I can feel I'm close to breaking. But I can't afford to break. Not now.

Her eyes close again and I feel panic rise in my chest once more.

"No Emily, c'mon stay with me. If you can hear me please just squeeze my hand."

I feel a very weak squeeze and I move my other hand to cover hers. "Yes, there you go, there you go Emily. Just keep squeezing."

I see creases form on her forehead as she struggles to grasp my hands. The pressure from her intermittent squeezes is weaker with every passing second, and I can see the pain clearly on her face. A part of me shatters seeing her like this. The fear of losing her is overpowering, and I struggle to maintain a semblance of calm. We can't lose her, not after all of this. _I_ can't lose her. The realization is overwhelming.

Somewhere along the way she had shifted from colleague, to partner, to friend, to... something else. Life without Emily Prentiss was destined to be a life tinged with regret and things that could have been. And it's a life I'm hell-bent on preventing from ever happening.

The medic finally rounds the corner, and his eyes widen as he takes in the sight of a table leg protruding ominously from her. A professional determination enters his eyes though, and he radios in to his partner to prepare various medical procedures that I'm not familiar with.

"Agent, I need to you to let go," his choice of words could not be poorer in light of Emily's previous plea. "I need to try and stabilize her. I need space to work. You can be right here, but you need to move out of the way."

I reluctantly let go of her hands, but step quickly to her other side, staying close, hoping she can feel my presence. The medic sets to work with various instruments and tools, but my eyes never leave her.

Moments pass and there's chatter I don't really hear over our radios. I gently push stray strands of hair out of her face, and cup her dangerously pale face with my hand. Her eyes flutter open briefly at my touch, and I wonder if just maybe that's enough to keep her here with us. Soon they're wheeling her into the ambulance and I jump into the back without giving it a second thought.

I grasp her hands with my own once more, giving them a gentle squeeze. To remind her I'm still here. To remind her she needs to hang on. There is no response from her this time. The journey to the hospital seems long. Too long. I feel us navigate through traffic and around corners, the wail of the siren echoing in my ears.

I choke back a sob as I hear the warning sound from the machine. She's letting go. All tension leaves her body, and that buzz that normally radiates off a living body dissipates quickly. "No! Emily, don't let go. Stay with me. Please. Hold on a little longer. C'mon Em. Please."

Tears are streaming down my face now. The medic's hands are moving around quickly, trying to save her life. I send a silent prayer to whoever might be listening to save her, because she doesn't deserve this ending.

Excruciatingly long seconds pass with no signs of life, and I feel that panic bloom in my chest once more.

"EMILY!" I yell at her forcefully, willing her to come back. "You can't leave us. You can't leave me! I need you. C'MON PRINCESS, FIGHT!"

Maybe it was the actions of the medic, maybe it was divine intervention, or maybe it was me appealing to her stubbornness, but whatever it was, it brought her back. Her eyes flutter, but do not open as she struggles to remain here. The medic exhales and asks the driver for an ETA. 2 minutes. 2 very long minutes.

I move one hand up to gently caress her cheek, and before I knew what I was doing I lower my head and press a gentle kiss on her forehead, "Don't leave me, Princess. Please."

It comes out in a whisper so quiet the medic sitting within an arm's reach of me doesn't hear it.

We reach the hospital after two more life-saving procedures are performed, and I'm left standing outside the ambulance, the doors to the emergency room wide open in front of me. I see her being wheeled quickly down the hall. I can't seem to make my feet move. I hear a screech of tires and moments later the presence of a body next to mine. JJ takes my arm and guides me to the waiting room. She mutters something about the team being 10 minutes out. She meets my gaze and must have seen the brokenness in my eyes, because she wraps her arms around me and finally I break.

I break the embrace, wiping my eyes just as the rest of the team files in. JJ excuses herself to speak with the nurses, and promises to return with an update when she has one. The rest of the team settles into the uncomfortable seats. Garcia grabs my hand and I can feel her shaking. With one deep breath I push my emotion to the back and focus on being strong for her, for them.

Hours pass, with no news and no sign of JJ. Reid is pacing, Hotch is staring stoically at the wall, and Rossi continually murmurs a prayer. Seaver sits, seemingly devoid of emotion, while Garcia struggles to maintain a hold on her tears.

I hear the footsteps before anyone else, and I raise my gaze from the floor. She doesn't need to speak, her demeanour gives it away, but she does anyway.

"She never made it off the table."

With just seven words I feel my heart break painfully, and emptiness take hold. I stare in disbelief. Emily Prentiss was gone. Forever.

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_If you feel so inclined, reviews are always welcomed. (:_


	5. Potatoes, Chicken & Ice Cream

_Many, many thanks to those who leave reviews. It's always nice to hear feedback about your writing. I really do appreciate each and every one._

_This chapter was incredibly difficult to write as it hit pretty close to home, which I didn't realize until I was right in the thick of it. I'm pretty pleased with how it turned out though. Happy reading!_

* * *

_"Healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity." –Hippocrates_

"Hey Mama."

"Derek! How are you?"

"I'm fine, Mama. Listen, do you have anything planned for this weekend?"

"Nothing concrete, no. Why?"

"I was thinking of flying out to visit you, since we have next week off of active case rotation and I'm due some vacation time."

"Oh, a visit from my son! You spoil me, Derek," I say teasingly.

I hear him chuckle, "What, no guilt trip? I know it's been awhile since I got out to Chicago..."

"Well, I'll turn on the guilt trip when you get here and I can do it in person. It's pretty good timing actually since your sisters are both on vacation."

"Sounds good, Mama," he says as he laughs again. "Listen, there was something else..."

"Mmhmm..."

"Would it be okay if I brought someone?"

"Derek Morgan, bringing someone home to meet the family?" I say with mock surprise. I know exactly who he wants to bring.

"Mama, please be serious."

"Of course, Derek. What time should I pick you and Emily up at the airport?"

He is quiet for a moment before he speaks with a tone of slight confusion, "I didn't say it was Emily I was bringing..."

"Am I wrong?"

"No...but how did you know it was her I wanted to bring?"

"Mother's intuition, dear. Never question it."

"Okay. Pick us up at 3 on Friday?"

"I'll be there."

"Great, see you then."

* * *

I arrive at the airport a few minutes early, park the car, and settle into a chair by the arrivals gate. My thoughts wander to the last time Derek visited. He'd turned up out of the blue at the door, his soul heavy, and eyes dark with sadness. I'd tried to get him to explain exactly what had happened, but he said he couldn't. All he told me was that Emily Prentiss, his partner, and the woman I was sure he loved, was dead. I'd only ever seen him that broken once before, when his father had died. He stayed a week, and bit by bit he grieved and let his emotions out.

* * *

_"Mama, she's gone. She's really gone, isn't she?" he whispers as he throws his arms around me and buries his face into my shoulder, just as he did as a child._

_"Yes Derek, she's gone."_

_There aren't really any words to comfort him, so I just hold him, and rub soothing circles on his back as he sheds his tears for the woman I know he loved. After several minutes his tears have stopped, and his breathing has slowed to a normal rate. I release my hold on him and gently push his face up so his eyes meet my gaze. His eyes look exactly the same as they did all those years ago, after the death of his father. Haunted._

_"You have to keep living Derek," I tell him. "You have to cherish the time you had with her, and honour the impact she left on you."_

_He nods solemnly as he stands and grabs his bag. Determination fills his eyes, and he walks to the door. He once again portrays the strong and good man he has grown up to be._

_"Thank you, Mama. For... everything."_

_"Of course, Derek."_

_He gives me one last hug, and opens the door to catch his flight home._

* * *

I smile as I see his familiar frame in the distance. They walk side by side, each carrying a bag. Derek smiles as he sees me, and his pace speeds up noticeably. I take in Emily's appearance: she looks tired, worn out, far too thin, and like she's gone several rounds as an emotional punching bag. But I suppose dying and subsequently coming back to life might do that to a person.

He greets me warmly with a smile and a strong hug, which I return in kind.

"Mama, it's been too long."

"You know it, Derek Morgan. These visits better get more frequent or I'll have to start sending your sisters out to bother you for me," I tease with a smile. Emily is shyly observing the interaction. I can tell she never had this kind of relationship with her mother as a child.

"Of course, just so long as these bad guys stick to a relatively manageable schedule," he says with a wink.

Emily has begun to bite her nails – no doubt a nasty nervous habit developed as a response to the often gruesome sights and situations she and Derek take on every day. I am struck by how different this woman standing in front of me is from the one I met just a few years ago. That woman was confident, strong, and keeping up with her colleagues. This woman looks a stone's throw from completely broken, her posture and mannerisms giving away her lack of confidence. She's trying to put up a brave front, cramming the pain and sadness deep down, but it's leaking out the cracks.

"Mama, you remember Emily Prentiss? From a few years ago? She helped me outta that mess..."

"Of course I do. Emily, it's lovely to see you again," I say warmly with a smile. Her eyes jump up from her hands, and meet mine. They look haunted, but by what I'm not yet sure. She puts her hand forward to shake mine, but I shake my head and open my arms instead. She shoots a quick look to Derek, who smiles at her in encouragement. She drops her bag and tentatively steps forward with a very small, and very forced smile. I wrap my arms around her, and all I can feel is nervous energy.

"It's nice to see you again, Mrs. Morgan, and under better circumstances," she says as she pulls away quickly, clearly unnerved by the embrace.

"Please, call me Fran. "Mrs. Morgan" makes me feel decidedly old," I say with a chuckle. She smiles faintly in response.

"Well, shall we get going? I'm sure you're both sick of airports, and would love nothing better than to freshen up and enjoy this beautiful day."

"Sounds good, lead the way," Derek says with a smile. He grabs his own and Emily's bag before she can protest, and shoots her a large grin.

Emily doesn't respond to Derek's actions, and this strikes me as significant. Derek has told me about her stubborn independence over the years, so for her to not respond is strange even to me. Her neutral expression takes over her face once more, and I wonder exactly how long it's been since she's _really_ smiled or laughed. Taking in her appearance once more, I also wonder exactly when the last time she ate a full meal or slept soundly was.

I lead the way to the car, and begin pondering her presence here. Derek obviously brought her to help her recover from whatever it is she went through, and she needs all the help she can get it seems.

"So how long are you two staying for?" I ask.

Derek shrugs in response, "The weekend at least, maybe a couple more days if that's okay. We'll see how we feel. We've got a bit of time off, so..."

And of course by "we" he means how "she" feels.

"Sounds perfect. Of course I'd love to have you as long as you can stay!"

We reach the car, load their bags, and climb in. I didn't miss Emily scanning the parking garage's darkened corners and exits, and nearly jumping out of her skin at a squealing of tires from a few rows over. Whatever happened to this poor girl, she clearly needs a relaxing weekend, though I'm not sure she'll be able to have one, given the state she's in.

* * *

Their first day here passed relatively uneventfully. We ordered pizza, and sat up talking for a while. Well, Derek and I talked. Emily mostly sat and observed us, partially listening to our conversation, partially staring out the window at the falling snow, a look of rumination in her eyes. I sent Derek to prepare the guest room, and offered her a mug of tea which she declined politely. She thanked me for the pizza, and bid me goodnight.

The next day, Derek and Emily went for a walk, with Derek showing her all the important places of his youth, and Emily no doubt scanning the environment for potential threats and planning exit strategies. It's no wonder when they returned she looked exhausted once more. That and I'm convinced she didn't sleep more than a couple hours.

As I am busy preparing a home-cooked dinner I can't help overhearing a snippet of the hushed conversation between Derek and Emily as they sit in the living room warming up from their walk.

"Does your mother know what I did?" her tone is quiet and strained.

"She knows you were dead, and are quite obviously not dead now," Derek says carefully.

"So she thinks I just abandoned you guys?"

"Emily, no one thinks that," Derek says with a sigh. He's obviously had to make this argument a few times.

I turn my attention back to the potatoes I need to peel, and an idea strikes me. I make sure to make enough noise that they know I'm approaching, and enter the doorway to the living room.

"Derek, I was wondering if you could pop into the store and get some of that ice cream that I like for dessert."

"Sure, Em and I can go now. But with the snow and the traffic we might be awhile," he replies with a smile.

"Well, actually I was hoping Emily might help me with making dinner. Your sisters usually help me out, but they're not here so I'm down two pairs of hands. And I know better than to let you anywhere near my kitchen," I say, hoping I'm not pushing the envelope.

Emily's eyes widen for a fraction of a second at the suggestion, but her manners ultimately take over, "Of course Mrs. Mor- Fran. I'd love to."

"Oh Mama, you don't know what you're getting yourself into. Keep her away from the stove!"

I open my mouth to scold him, but I'm pleasantly surprised when Emily beats me to the punch, "Derek Morgan. Are you really going down this road again? Worry about your own severely lacking cooking skills!"

I smile at Derek's surprised expression, and at the sign of life from Emily. So she is in there after all. She seems to realize her outburst, and shyly looks at me once more, "Sorry. He's just infuriating sometimes."

"You're preaching to the choir, dear," I reply with a wink.

Derek grabs his coat, whispers something to Emily, and swiftly leaves the house as we move into the kitchen.

"So what did you need me to do, Fran? Despite what Derek thinks, I'm not completely hopeless in a kitchen," she says with a small smile.

"Those potatoes need peeling, if you don't mind. I've got to get the chicken ready."

"Of course."

We work for a few minutes before I'm pleasantly surprised once more when she breaks the silence.

"Thank you so much for having me this weekend, Fran. It really means a lot that you'd open up your home to me. Especially after everything I've put Derek through."

I stop my preparation of the chicken and regard her. She is focused intently on her task, but I know she can feel my gaze because she shifts almost uncomfortably on her feet. Knowing Derek is at least another 45 minutes or so away from returning, I decide to push a little deeper.

"I've never seen him quite to broken up, not even after his father died."

I hear her inhale and exhale quickly, probably in an attempt to restrain her emotions, to cram them down and pretend they aren't there.

"He came here after your death, you know. He just showed up out of the blue, with this heaviness on his heart, and tears in his eyes."

Her shoulders drop and I hear the smallest of sniffles as she remains intently focused on peeling the potatoes.

"He just kept saying, "Mama, I lost her. She's gone. She's gone." over and over again," I feel a bit cruel doing this to her, but she needs to break the dam of emotions open before she can hope to heal.

She drops the knife and potato she is holding and places her hands on the counter, to steady herself. I see her body shudder with the sobs she is desperately trying to suppress.

"He said he couldn't tell me what happened exactly, but he told me you'd died protecting someone. He told me how he felt so... so lost after you died. How he felt like a part of him was missing without his partner. Without his friend."

I reach out and put my hand on her shoulder. She does not flinch or shrug away, but in a small, broken voice speaks, "I didn't want to hurt him."

I turn her around slowly and take in her tear-stained face, and despair-ridden posture. She meets my gaze and almost immediately turns her eyes to her hands which are busy picking at nearly non-existent fingernails. I wrap my arms around her and pull her close, willing her to drop her defenses entirely. She doesn't fight the embrace, but she doesn't reciprocate it either.

We stay like that for what seems like hours, but is really only a few moments before she finally gives up trying to restrain her emotions, and I feel sobs wrack her too-thin frame. Her arms find their way around me, and she holds me tightly as if I'm anchoring her in some way.

"I know dear. I know you didn't want to hurt him."

A fresh bout of shuddering overtakes her at my words, and I feel her tears dampen my shirt.

"But I did, and I can't fix it now," she says between sobs, her voice painfully broken.

Minutes pass as she stays safe within my arms, fighting to compose herself. She finally manages to stem the flow of tears and control her sobs. She pulls away from the embrace and quickly tries to wipe away the evidence of her breakdown, "I'm sorry, I just... Being away from him, from them, was hard."

"Of course it was. You lost your friends when you were... gone. They mourned the loss of you, but you never really got to mourn your loss of them. I'd imagine you were too busy fighting for your life and focusing on surviving, wherever you were for those months."

She doesn't respond, but is carefully considering my words.

"But that isn't what's really bothering you, is it? It's more that you feel you betrayed them, isn't it?"

Her only response is a nod.

"I don't know the specifics of the situation, but I know that you would _never_ do anything to hurt your friends. Stop blaming yourself, Emily. I'm assuming it was a completely necessary turn of events that led to your need to disappear in the most extreme way. And they know that. They just need time to process."

"I know. It's just difficult – I'm not entirely sure how to move forward from here," she reveals, apprehension plain her voice.

"You build up the friendships one by one. You'll find they'll be stronger having gone through these trials. I can already see you and Derek are on your way to strengthening your friendship."

Her eyes widen at my words.

"Don't look so surprised. My baby boy never brings anyone home to me. You must be pretty special to him to have that honour. I see the way he looks at you. He may have been angry at first, but all he is now is concerned for you. Let him help you. He feels helpless watching you struggle. He needs to help, it's how he copes."

Her eyes soften and the corners of her mouth turn upward ever so slightly to form a small smile, "Okay."

"Good. Now give me another hug, and you go freshen up a bit, you look a mess. But don't be too long, these potatoes won't peel themselves," I say with a smile, my tone sounding decidedly motherly.

She wraps her arms around me, and the nervous energy that permeated her body before has dissipated significantly. In its place I feel the small beginnings of healing. She walks quickly out of the kitchen toward the guest room, and even her gait looks less burdened. While she's far from okay, it's the all important first step toward reaching it.

Derek returns a little while later and we enjoy a delicious dinner, full of engaging conversation, laughter, and smiles all around the table. Emily's eyes are still dark with sadness, but are brighter than they were yesterday. Her posture holds more confidence, and her soul seems far less heavy than when she first arrived. While she still looks exhausted physically and emotionally, her spirits have been buoyed a bit by her release of the tension which had no doubt been there for months. Derek seems to have noticed, and he takes every opportunity to make her smile and laugh. His own smile seems to widen with each of hers.

"So, are you two going to hang around a few more days?" I ask after finishing the last of my bowl of ice cream.

Emily smiles knowingly at me, "Yes, I think we'll stay a few more days. At least, if that's okay with you Derek? And with you Fran?"

Derek nods, his mouth full of ice cream, and I smile in response, "Of course dear. I'm happy to have you."

* * *

_Leave a review, if you would be so kind. (=_


	6. Wining and Dining

_Many, __**many**__ thanks to those who left kind words for the last chapter! Your reviews all brought smiles to my face. _

_This next chapter was __**ridiculously**__ fun to write. After a few emotionally draining writing processes, this was a welcomed change of pace. Here's hoping I can elicit a chuckle or two from some of you. Happy reading! =)_

* * *

_"I cook with wine, sometimes I even add it to the food." – W.C. Fields_

Hell hath no fury like Emily Prentiss scorned. I'm fairly certain there are scorch marks on the inside of the elevator and the walls surrounding the doors. Her eyes are ablaze with passion-fuelled rage. As much as she prides herself on having unparalleled compartmentalization skills, there are a few things that always seem to rattle her. This didn't used to bother her. In fact, she used to take the seemingly good-natured ribbing in stride, but then again, I suppose living in isolation for months fearing a terrorist who has a deep hatred for you and has the means to kill you, again, might change your perspective on things and shorten your fuse a little.

She glances over to me, attempting to keep her expression neutral and control her tone, but those eyes give her away. They're blazing with anger, and I definitely don't want to get in her way. I suppress a chuckle, knowing that it will implicate me for a crime I most certainly did not commit, and was not an accessory to.

"Where is he?" she doesn't bother using his name, she knows I know exactly who she's asking about.

I shrug, portraying nonchalance, even though we both know I desperately want to see the verbal ass-kicking she's about to deliver. Those two need to relieve some tension.

"Dave," the fire in her eyes flares dangerously as she warns me with her tone.

"I think I'll get some coffee," I say with a wink. I'm antagonizing her, and I know it, but I can't help myself. I can't get over how good it is to see her, alive, and to see an emotion in her eyes besides fear. After she came back her eyes were deadened in a way, filled with a heaviness of sorts, devoid of any real emotion other than fear. And of course, it's completely understandable given what she went through.

She huffs in frustration throwing her bag onto her desk causing papers to fly to the ground, and drops into her chair heavily. She glares at me as I make my way to the coffee machine. I see him turn the corner behind her, stop dead in his tracks and eye the papers on the ground carefully. I avert my eyes from him quickly, but it's too little too late, she saw the subtle movement.

"Morgan," she says icily as she turns around in her chair.

He gulps nervously and smiles his best charming smile, "Princess! Good morning."

She rises from her chair, and I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms. This is going to be good. Either she's going to physically harm him, or the two of them will end up confirming my suspicions in a rather different ending. Like I said, they need to relieve some tension.

"Don't you "Princess" me."

He keeps smiling nervously, his eyes begging me for support. I'm definitely not jumping to his defence, especially not when she is so dangerously aflame with anger. I give him my best "you-made-this-mess" look.

"I've had it with your "Prentiss can't cook" routine."

He had literally backed himself into a wall, and she was only inches from him. He gulped again, clearly figuring silence was his best option. Her supposed inability to cook was a source of ongoing ribbing, and had been as long as I can remember. It's actually quite shocking she hadn't attacked him over it years ago. What is even more impressive is how the brave Derek Morgan is reduced to a whimpering, terrified mess with just one look from her.

"Hey, what's going on?"

"Shhh" I hush Reid quietly. "Emily's confronting Morgan."

"Oh. Has she cursed at him in another language yet?"

"Not yet."

"Let's get one thing straight, buddy. I. Can. Cook," she accentuated each word with a rather forceful poke of his chest. She was just getting warmed up.

"I'm actually fairly accomplished. The reason I eat so much takeout is because of this job. You know, the one that has painfully long hours, a packed schedule, and limited time off. I eat takeout because more often than not, I'm tired after a case and don't feel like cooking. Picking up some pizza or a salad or some Chinese after a case does not necessarily mean I can't cook. It means I'm tired, cranky and just want to relax in my hot tub with a good book and some good, easily accessible food."

"Princess, it was just a jo-"

"Oh no, don't you even think of trying to weasel your way out of this one. I'm not even close to finished with you..."

My best guess is that Morgan had cracked another joke on the flight home from our last case and it had been the last straw for her. Her patience had been wearing thin on it for a long time.

"Rossi, boy wonder, what are you guys doing?"

"Shhh" Reid and I shush Garcia as she comes to grab some coffee.

"OH! Is she finally confronting him over the cooking thing?" Garcia asks as she eyes Prentiss and Morgan.

"Yeah, she's just getting to the good part too," Reid says as he smiles excitedly.

"Has she started her international cursing routine yet?" she asks, mischief dancing in her eyes.

"Not yet," I utter.

"Fifty says she goes with French," Garcia says with confidence.

"No, she's definitely going to go with Russian," Reid replies.

"I'm thinking German. Put me in for fifty," JJ says as she appears beside us in the doorway.

"Hey," Hotch says as he leans against the counter beside me, having entered from the other doorway. "Prentiss finally addressing the cooking thing?"

"Yep," we all reply in unison, not moving our eyes from Emily's tirade.

"What's everyone betting?"

"Reid's going with Russian, JJ with German, Garcia with French, and I'm siding with Italian. Wager is fifty. You want in?" I reply, not responding with shock at Hotch's knowledge of our break in regulation. Garcia, Reid and JJ's wide open mouths tell a completely different story however.

Hotch considers the situation for a moment.

"-as if you even have the qualification to assess my cooking skills Mr. "my-mom-makes-everything-for-me" and spoils me rotten," Emily's rant had continued during our conversation, but no hint of a foreign language yet.

Hotch gives an uncharacteristic grin, "I really shouldn't, but I'm in for fifty on Spanish."

"Oh! I forgot about Spanish!" Garcia squeals.

Several minutes of Emily's diatribe continued, until I hear the sweet, sweet accent of an accomplished Italian speaker utter a string of rather foul, but colourful and definitely amusing curses.

"Pay up everyone. I knew my girl would go with the language of the greats, with the hand gestures to match!" I say with glee. Fistfuls of money are handed over amidst groans and eye rolling.

She has finally finished, leaving Morgan leaning against the wall, too stunned to move.

"Hey. Everyone.," she says, grabbing our attention. "Apparently I have to prove that I'm not completely useless in a kitchen, so I'm cooking for you. Tomorrow. 6 o'clock sharp at my place. Got it?"

We all nod quickly in response, not wanting to anger her further.

She finishes speaking and settles in behind her desk, grabbing a stack of files. We follow suit, Morgan perhaps never being happier that he has his own office, and Garcia pouting that she has to return to hers.

* * *

I arrive at her home early, bearing a gift of fine wine, her favourite to be exact. The winnings from the bet would certainly go to a worthy cause and it seemed only fair I thank her for it, even if she was unaware of what her actions won me. I raise my free hand and knock.

"MORGAN! I swear if you're here early just to judge me and my cooking I'm going to- Oh. Hi Dave."

Her expression softens as she offers me a wide smile, "Please, come in."

"I brought a peace offering," I say with a chuckle. "Just in case I resemble Morgan more than I think I do."

I hold out the bottle for her to examine. A smile graces her lips once more and she gestures to her living room, "I'll grab us some glasses."

Three-quarters of a bottle of wine later, her feast for us is cooking in the oven, and she is curled up on the couch, telling me about a time she travelled to Italy with some college friends. Her story wraps up, and she glances at the watch on her wrist. Plenty of time left until they arrive.

"So Dave, to what do I owe the pleasure of my favourite, and _very_ expensive wine making an appearance here?"

"You won me $200 yesterday," I reply with a grin.

"What? How?"

"Your language of choice for your verbal assault on Morgan was Italian."

"You didn't actually bet on what language I was going to curse in, did you?" she says as she exhales in embarrassment, covering her mouth with her free hand.

"Yep. Fifty bucks each, bella. That's how this wine came to join our party here tonight."

She grinned and sipped the last few drops of her glass. I followed suit, and poured us each a fresh glass, finishing off the bottle.

"But $200 doesn't cover this wine…" she says with a frown.

"No, but it goes a decent way to replacing one of the bottles from my collection," I say with a smile. She grins in response.

"I missed this," I say after a few moments of comfortable silence. "No one else I know appreciates fine wine and good conversation quite like you do."

Her expression saddens, "I missed it too. Those months were long and painful enough, but no alcohol and no conversation definitely put it over the top for me."

"No alcohol?"

"Well, even if I could have convinced myself to drink in my overly paranoid and hyper-vigilant state, it would have probably wreaked havoc with my medications I was on. This is actually the first drinking I've done since the whole..." she trailed off and gestured to her abdomen in a stabbing motion.

"Well, then here's to fine wine, and good company. May they never part again!" I say as I raise my glass to her.

She raises hers in response, and we each take a full gulp, finishing off the last of the bottle, and enjoying the smooth texture and full flavour.

* * *

A few hours later, the team sits around her table, conversation and laughter filling the room. Empty plates sit in front of each team member and Emily's cooking is certainly never to be questioned again.

I look around the room at each person, and see happiness and peace in their eyes for the first time in many months. Emily feels my gaze on her and quickly raises her eyebrows questioningly. I shake my head subtlety, and raise my glass to her. She echoes my movement, and we drink, toasting this wonderful occasion.

"Okay Princess, you have definitely proved yourself. I hereby pledge to never question your ability to cook ever again. That meal might actually be better than my mama's cooking," Morgan says with a goofy smile on his face.

Emily smiles triumphantly, and lifts her glass in one final toast, her eyes fixed on mine, "To my cooking ability! And to us, together again."

"Finally!" we all reply, somehow in unison with smiles all around as the last drops of the wine I brought are finished.

We all being to make our way home after the dishes are all cleared, and eventually just Morgan and I are left. I hang back, giving the two of them some space.

Morgan gives Emily another goofy grin and throws his arms around her in a tight hug. I see her close her eyes for a moment and she seems to melt into his arms with a sigh. The hug lasts significantly longer than your average hug between friends. I smile knowingly. It's only a matter of time between those two.

"Princess, I'm so glad you're back," Morgan says as she escorts him to his cab that is waiting on the road out front. Just before he enters the cab, he throws his arms around her once more and says something that makes her blush and then laugh heartily. With Morgan on his way safely home, she returns to the doorway and opens her arms, inviting a hug.

"Thanks Dave," she says as her arms wrap tightly around me. This affection is not characteristic of her, but is much appreciated. I hope it is a trend that continues, it could do her a lot of good.

"No problem, bella," I reply, knowing she's talking about more than just the wine.

I enter my cab, and wave to her through the window. She waves back with a smile. She's going to be okay. We're going to be okay.

* * *

_As always, if you so feel inclined, leave a review. Feedback is always appreciated._


	7. Guilty Conscience

_Many thanks to those who read and reviewed the last chapter. Your words of encouragement really do spur me on in my writing. Here is the next chapter, tagged to the wonderful 'Minimal Loss' episode. I do hope I did it justice._

_As always, if you so feel inclined, please leave some words in the form of a review. Happy reading. =)_

* * *

_"Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do." - Voltaire_

I'm sitting across from her, my eyes focused on the piece of floor between my feet. I hear footsteps and I glance up to find Cyrus walking purposefully toward us. His attempt at a calm, neutral expression is in vain – I can see the frustration plainly displayed.

"Which one of you is it?" he says with an even voice, looking first at Emily, then back at me.

She makes no attempt to answer his question, nor do I. At this point I'm not sure either of us is entirely sure what he's asking about. He keeps walking, and turns around once he has made it past us. I stay perfectly still, but Emily pulls her hands from their resting place on her knees when he pulls out a gun.

"Which one of you is the FBI agent?" he asks, with irritation evident in his tone and his gaze focused on the floor between us.

Her look of shock is quickly masked by an expression of confusion, far too quick for Cyrus to have noticed thankfully. The fact that he has knowledge of an FBI agent's presence is worrying, but it's a situation that we need to diffuse quickly. His expression and mannerisms present a clear agitation which, when paired with the presence of the loaded gun, and us as a stressor certainly can't end well.

"Why do you think one of us is an FBI agent?" I ask, chancing a quick glance at Emily. Her eyes dart between Cyrus, the gun and me, no doubt assessing our situation.

"God will forgive me for what I must do," he says as he points the gun at my head. Clearly he's not buying our attempts at misdirection.

I see Emily's eyes widen, and her mouth open as she inhales in panic.

"I don't- I don't know what you're talking about."

I can't help the stutter. Something about having a gun pointed at me managed to throw a curveball into my thought process. My stutter certainly all but paints a picture for him, no doubt identifying me as the FBI agent. I can feel Emily's eyes on me again, and I sneak a glance at her. While her eyes reveal the panic that had arisen moments ago, they also have a touch of something else in them.

"One of you does," he says, clearly not recognizing my giveaway, or not believing it, or maybe just desiring to hear a confession from one of us. "Who is it?"

His tone is impatient, and I am beginning to doubt his calm facade again. I assess the probabilities - there is a very real possibility that he will shoot me.

I meet Emily's gaze once more, and that look of something else in her eyes has grown. I recognize it as concern and pity too late, and before I can do anything she is uttering the word that will condemn her to be entirely at Cyrus' mercy and render me helpless to stop it.

"Me."

Her tone is almost unsure, the word tumbling out of her mouth entirely too quickly for her mind to really register it, I think.

Her expression hardens, and her tone is stronger this time, portraying the confidence I have come to associate with her, "It's me."

In my split-second of indecision, she had chosen to take the fall. My eyebrows raise quickly in question. Not exactly the strategy of dealing with this situation that I had in mind. Her gaze lowers to the floor, her lips pressing together in acceptance of what she had just admitted. He lowers the gun, and I see her meet my gaze for the briefest of seconds. I shoot her a look of, '_what_ are you doing?!' but she averts her eyes away immediately.

I mask my expression with one of confusion and surprise as Cyrus glances at me. He returns his attention to Emily as he stows his gun. Suddenly he grabs her hair forcefully and yanks her from the bench.

I hear her whimpers and groans of pain as he drags her out of the room, and I can't help but look at her with guilt and concern. The presence of another gun pointed at me stops me from attempting to help her. For a moment our eyes meet, but her expression is unreadable.

My mind begins racing, trying to figure out how Cyrus found out we were there, how we were going to get out, and most predominantly, what Cyrus was going to do to Emily. The strangled noises of pain grew softer as Cyrus dragged her further away, and were almost silenced entirely with the slam of a door.

Despite the distance he had dragged her, I could hear Cyrus' muffled voice, "I told you not to put me in this position!"

What followed his angered yell are sounds that I will likely never be able to forget. Cries of pain, the sickening sound of feet and fists connecting with her body, and the high-pitched shattering of glass.

He is speaking to her again, but I can't make out the words, my mind is still focused on the sounds of him torturing her. I feel a dull thud as something, or someone, connects with the wall that separates us.

I try desperately to tune out the sounds and focus on engineering an escape out of this predicament, but my efforts are futile at best. Several more moments of pained cries and crashing pass before I hear her voice for the first time.

"I can take it."

Her voice is steady, despite the situation and her likely weakened state. Her efforts to communicate to the team while she is experiencing what has to be a significant amount of pain only serves to strengthen my belief in her abilities as an agent.

She continues to repeat her statement, which only antagonizes Cyrus further, sending his rage spiralling out of control. The violence that follows is audible. I can hear his fists connecting with her body, and her pained inhalations of breath.

He utters something that I can't quite make out, and delivers the final blow of his beating. When I don't hear her after, the lump in my throat grows larger. He hadn't actually killed her, had he? I quickly run over his profile in my head, and realize in all likelihood he hadn't. But there was always that chance. And that chance, no matter how small it might be, was what had my legs feeling unable to support to weight as I was swiftly escorted away.

* * *

When she is roughly thrown into the room, I notice the extent of the damage immediately. Bruising covers most of her face, with the area around her left eye beginning to swell. There are cuts distributed on her face, neck and arms. Blood stains the front of her shirt, likely from her nose and lip which both show evidence of having recently been bleeding. Deep, angry cuts adorn her forearms, staining her pale skin red. Her hair, normally perfectly styled, is tangled and in disarray.

She glances at Cyrus' form at the front of the room as he reads off names and whispers her assessment to me, "He looks pissed."

My mind doesn't process her words. I can't tear my eyes away from her. From the damage he'd done. From the damage _I_ should have endured – not her. She must feel my stare, because she turns her attention away from Cyrus and back to me.

In typical Emily fashion she vastly downplays the extent of her injuries, breathing a whisper to me, "It's not as bad as it looks."

My mind goes blank, and I can't think of anything to say other than, "I'm so sorry."

She immediately shakes her head, trying to reassure me. She focuses on Cyrus once more and brings my attention to who he is releasing. Determination and a desire to get us out of here, and get her away from him settle into my mind. I quickly tell her I'd get word to the team and that she should wait for a sign from outside about the surely impending raid.

I walk over to Cyrus, and beginning my manipulation strategy tell him, "I told her she shouldn't have lied to you like that."

"To either of us," he drawls in response and orders her to be taken back.

Emily's eyes narrow at my out-of-earshot conversation with Cyrus, but she isn't able to react in any other way, for she is grabbed roughly and pulled out of the room once more.

* * *

The explosion rocks through the air, and I feel dust and smoke filling my lungs. I stumble through the debris of the building, Morgan helping guide me past the rubble and burning wreckage.

I look up and see her standing in front of Hotch, looking decidedly worried as she scans the scene. Her eyes finally find us and she brings her hands to her face in relief. She walks slowly forward to meet us, and throws her arms around me a tight hug. We break the embrace, and stand beside each other, her arm around my waist, almost to make sure I'm really here. I smile and wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to me, careful not to aggravate any injuries she may have sustained.

* * *

One heated debate over whether a hospital visit was necessary, and an actual visit to the hospital later, we find ourselves sitting on the jet, flying back to Quantico. My mind is still reeling from the events of the day, and I seek refuge in one of the books I carry with me in my go-bag.

She drops gently into the seat across from me, her movements slow and stiff. She flashes a smile at me, "Hey."

"Hey," I reply. I'm not one for conversations much like the one I think is about to happen. I tend to prefer burying my head in books and avoiding them. But Emily Prentiss is a determined and stubborn woman. I shift my attention from her back to my book, but she shifts forward on her seat and leans in closer to me. Her hands reach for mine, and gently pull the book down.

My gaze wanders over her now more bruised face. Various shades of green, yellow, purple, black and blue adorn her pale face, and her left eye is swollen likely impairing her vision. Her expression reflects a great deal of compassion and love. Her tone as she begins speaking is steady, but full of determination, and tinged with emotion.

"Hey, I need you to listen to me."

I'm not sure any conversation in history has ever gone well when it has started with that line. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, but don't avert my eyes from hers.

"What Cyrus did to me is not your fault."

She emphasizes "not your fault" with her tone, and I move my gaze from her to anything but. The chair, the window, the floor, the book, my hands. Anything and everything but her. The guilt is eating at me, has been since the moment she'd told him it was her that was the FBI agent. I can't figure out how I am supposed to _not_ feel guilty about what she'd done. She'd sacrificed herself for me – probably to save me from enduring another episode of torture. My eyes flit back and forth between the empty spaces on the table on either side of our hands, still avoiding her gaze.

"It was my decision and I would do it again," she continues.

At this my eyes are drawn up from the table. I can feel the guilt still simmering, but her tone and eyes are doing a good job of convincing me otherwise. Her expression is one of worry, and she tilts her head slightly as she asks, "Do you hear me?"

The tone of her voice and look in her eyes are pleading with me to understand. I keep eye contact and shift my expression in reply.

"Thank you," it comes out almost in a whisper. Her gaze shifts to her hands which hold my own, and she squeezes them gently. She gives me a small smile which I return. She draws her hands back to her lap and leans back against the seat. I tilt my book back up but can't help but shoot her another smile. She returns it widely before closing her eyes and hopefully slipping into a peaceful sleep.

I take in her resting form one last time before diving back into my book. We really are lucky she made her way into the BAU. The team gained a competent profiler and agent, and another piece of our puzzle; I gained a friend, confidant, and the closest thing I think I'll ever have to an older sister.

* * *

_If you have the time and are willing, I would so appreciate a review. :)_


	8. Auntie Em! Auntie Em!

_My thanks again for the reviews on the last chapter. They do so make me smile, and your insights/thoughts are always interesting. This chapter is admittedly largely based on a rather adorable person in my own life... but I think it fits this scenario too. And of course once "Auntie Em" popped into my head, I just had to incorporate it. Anyway, happy reading!_

* * *

_"Oh, Auntie Em, there's no place like home!" - L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_

"Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" I yell as I run down the hall to her room. "It's today! It's today!"

I push open the door and run toward her bed. With a big leap, I land in the space next to her and bounce on the mattress. She doesn't move, and I can hear her snoring quietly.

"Moooooooooooooooooooommm!" I whine as I shake her arm to wake her.

She shifts a little and turns her head to look at me, "Henry. What is it?"

"It's today!"

"What is?"

"You're going out with Daddy, and I'm going to Auntie Em's!"

She smiles and looks at her clock on the table beside the bed, "Henry, it's only 7, why are you up already?"

"Because we have to go!"

"We have to eat breakfast first, Henry."

"I know! Daddy's making it."

"He is?"

"Yeah, now get up mommy!" I say as I push her to get out of bed.

"Okay, okay, okay. Go help Daddy, and I'll get ready."

"Kay!" I say as I scoot off the bed and run down to the kitchen. I hear her yell something about coffee to Daddy, and then I sit at the table, waiting for my breakfast.

* * *

When we finally get to her house, I run ahead of mom and dad and knock on the door. Auntie Em opens the door and holds out her arms. I jump into her arms and give her the biggest hug I can. Mommy says she needs lots of hugs, so I make sure to hug her every time I see her, even if I don't feel like it. She always smiles when I hug her, so I guess I must be doing something right.

She picks me up and twirls us around, "Hiya handsome!"

"Hi Auntie Em!" I say as she holds me in her arms and I wrap my arms tightly around her neck.

"Hey Jayje, hey Will. You two ready for a day free from your baby boy?"

"Honestly Em, I know it's a long time to watch him and I won't take it personally if you-"

"Yes, we are," Daddy says with a smile, interrupting Mommy.

"JJ, please don't worry. The fair prince and I are going to explore all sorts of fascinating things today, right Henry?"

"Yeah!" I say using my outdoor voice even though we're inside, and even though I don't really understand what she said.

"See? He's fine. I've got your cell, and Will's. And if that doesn't pan out, I've got Garcia and her talents, so you don't need to worry."

Mommy looks at Auntie Em for a minute before she responds, "Okay, but when your kitchen has been destroyed and is beyond any hope of repair, I'm going to remind you of this."

Auntie Em laughs and then pretends to whisper to Mommy and Daddy, "Who says Henry is going to be the one to destroy it?!"

"You're incorrigible Em. Absolutely incorrigible. We'll see you later."

I wave bye to my parents and then ask the most important question I have to ask, "So what are we going to do today?"

* * *

The day has been super fun so far. We've played with Sergio – well, Auntie Em just sat on the couch and laughed at me while I chased him around the room, watched some cartoons, had lunch, spent some time drawing, and played hide and seek. I was starting to get a little sleepy, but I wanted to stay awake and play.

"Okay handsome, time for a nap, yeah?"

"But I wanna play with you s'more," I use my best whine to try and convince her.

"Hmm, tell you what. How about I stay with you and we can chat until you fall asleep?"

I nod my head yes. Ha! Like I'm going to fall asleep. She sits down on the couch and grabs a blanket to cover me with. I crawl up onto the couch next to her, and lay my head on her lap. She tucks the blanket around me and I snuggle closer to her and into the blanket's warmth.

"So what do you want to talk about, mon ami?"

I turn my head to look at her, confused.

"Ah, je m'excuse. What did you want to talk about, my friend?"

"Who's Jim Skews?"

Auntie Em laughs, "It's not a person Henry, it means 'I'm sorry'."

"It does?"

"Yes, it's French though."

"What's French?"

"It's the language they speak in France, and a bunch of other places."

"Where's France?"

"In Europe."

"Where's-"

"Across the ocean. And yes, it's far, but not _too_ far."

"Oh. How come you know French? We're not in France, Auntie Em!"

She laughs and smiles widely, "That's right, we're not. But I used to live there."

"WOAH. Really? Do they have TVs there?"

"Yes, they have TVs there."

"What's it like there?"

"Different. It's more relaxed there. And the food is better. Much better actually. There's lots of art and paintings and really cool buildings. It's very beautiful there. Maybe your parents will take you there one day."

"You think?"

"C'est possible!"

"What?"

She laughs again, "It means 'It's possible' in French."

"Oh, okay," I can't stop a yawn from escaping my mouth. I'm getting just a little bit sleepy.

"You getting sleepy yet?"

"Maybe a little. But let's talk s'more."

"Fine by me, handsome. What do you want to talk about?"

"You pick something, Auntie Em."

"Hmmm... Oh, how about I tell you about another Auntie Em?"

That doesn't make any sense. "Another Auntie Em? But you're the only Auntie Em."

"No, I'm _your_ only Auntie Em. There are lots of _other_ Auntie Ems. But this one is a famous one!"

"Really? Is she a superhero like you?"

"No, she's not a superhero, she's a character from a very famous book."

"What book?"

"The Wonderful Wizard of Oz."

"Never heard of it. Guess it's not good."

"Oh no Henry, it's actually very good. Maybe we can read it together one day."

"Okay! Wait, so who's this other Auntie Em?"

"She's the aunt of the main character in the story."

"Mmm..." My eyes are starting to close. The blanket is really nice and warm, and I'm officially sleepy.

"You know what?"

"What?"

"Every time you call me Auntie Em I think of that book and it makes me smile."

"How come?"

"Because it was one of my favourites when I was a kid."

"Really?"

"Yep, I read it all the time. And I used to watch the movie too."

"There's a movie?"

"Yeah, but the book is better."

"What happens in the book?"

"The main character, Dorothy, goes on an adventure, and by the end all she wants is to go home to her Auntie Em because she misses her."

"Like I missed you when you were gone?"

Auntie Em doesn't say anything for a minute, and she seems kind of sad. But then she runs her hand through my hair like mommy does when she tucks me in at night, "Yeah Henry. Just like that."

My eyes close because I can't keep them open any longer, but I have to tell her before I fell asleep. I have to tell her because it's important and Daddy says when something is important we should always tell someone.

"Auntie Em?"

"Yes Henry?" she says as she rubs my shoulder gently, probably to make me fall asleep. It's working.

"Don't go away again, okay? I missed you when you were gone."

She stops rubbing my shoulder, and leans forward. She kisses my cheek and promises me exactly what I hoped she would, "I won't handsome, I promise."

* * *

_If you have a spare moment, I'd love to hear your thoughts, even if it's just that you enjoyed/hated/are ambivalent about it._


	9. Moonlight Sonata

_Many thanks once again to those who leave reviews! Another new perspective - which was difficult to write. Let me know what you think. Happy reading! =)_

* * *

_"What the daughter does, the mother did." – Jewish Proverb_

She is seated across from me in the modern Italian restaurant, a menu open in front of her, and her eyes scanning the pages. My menu lays open in front of me, but I find I cannot tear my eyes from her. After years of no interaction with her, save for a few intermittent short phone calls assuring me she was alive and needed nothing from me, it's nice to simply be in the same vicinity as her. While we have always had differences in opinion and I've been less than an award-worthy mother, the fact remains that I love my daughter. Not being in contact with her, not knowing what's going on in her life, not being there for her – it all stings, despite what she may think.

While she may be the profiler, I take in her carefully guarded demeanour and deduce she feels the same tension I do. The conversation up to this point has surrounded safe topics, and has not even scratched the surface of anything of consequence. But despite the tension, and our seemed inability to discuss anything outside of the weather or current news and events, I can't help but feel somewhat hopeful. Simply being in each other's company is a big step for us both, and we're both aware of that fact. I can't help but feel that we're starting to bridge the massive gap between us.

She decides on her meal and politely asks if we should order some wine. I agree and indicate she should pick a bottle. She nods and offers a small smile.

The waiter arrives and she orders the wine and her meal in flawless Italian. The waiter's eyes widen, and a smile graces his face as he fires back a few clarifying questions in Italian, clearly enjoying the opportunity to speak in his native tongue. I give my own order, and hand over my menu.

We talk and reminisce about delicious meals we enjoyed during our time in Rome before I decide to seize the lack of available distractions and delve into a topic somewhat deeper than food and the nice weather we've been enjoying.

"So Emily, you and your team seem to be just as impressive as all the tales suggest."

"They are an impressive bunch of individuals," she says, deflecting attention away from herself as she has always done.

"It's a good fit for you then?"

"Yes. It's a real challenge, and I feel I'm doing something worthwhile."

"Good. I'm glad."

We settle into a prolonged silence that is uncomfortable for us both, but is thankfully interrupted by the waiter bringing our food. We both begin eating, with years of proper etiquette showing in our behaviour and mannerisms.

Conversation tentatively starts again when she comments on the high quality of her meal, and how well the wine pairs with it. I agree, and offer my thanks for her excellent choice in wine. She offers another small smile in return, and I can't help but think that I've seen her smile more in the last hour than I have in all the time since she was a child.

* * *

_"Let's go over it one more time, Emily."_

_"Mom," she says in a tone full of derision. "We've gone over it a thou-"_

_"Emily," I say sharply, interrupting her._

_"What?" she snaps. I see her eyes flair and an angry expression settle onto her face._

_"You agreed to be pleasant."_

_"That was before you started treating me like I'm five years old."_

_"The way you're acting right now, it's warranted," I reply as I cross my arms._

_"Oh come on. Just because you don't like what I have to say isn't a reason to treat me like I'm a little kid."_

_"I'm doing nothing of the sort."_

_She mutters something inaudible under her breath and shoots a cutting look in my direction._

_I sigh in annoyance, "Guests are due to arrive in 20 minutes or so. Go upstairs to your room and change."_

_She shifts on her feet and I see an all too familiar stubbornness enter her eyes._

_"No."_

_"Pardon me?"_

_"I. Said. No. What part of that did you not understand?"_

_"The part where you disobeyed me."_

_Flames of anger join the stubbornness in her eyes as she glares at me, but says nothing in reply._

_"You're being completely unreasonable. All I'm asking for is a few hours of pleasant behaviour."_

_"It's not unreasonable when all you do is use me to get ahead in your career. There's always some party or some dinner to go to."_

_"I'm giving you the opportunity to meet people that you and your friends would be honoured to speak with."_

_"Friends? What friends?! We just got here a few weeks ago. You really think that us moving every few months gives me any chance to make friends? I'm always the new girl, the one who can't speak the language, the one who doesn't fit in because I'm from a completely different culture. Why can't we just stay in one place for longer than a few months? Oh wait, I know. It's because your stupid career comes first."_

_"That career has provided you with the opportunity to see the world and receive the finest education available," I point out, choosing to ignore her choice in words._

_"You're so missing the point."_

_"What is the point then?" I ask exasperatingly _

_"Never mind. I'm not coming to dinner. Tell them whatever you want, but I'm not coming down. You'll have to find some other way of making your connections or whatever."_

_"Emily. Go upstairs and change. I expect you downstairs in 10 minutes."_

_"Did you not hear me? I'M NOT COMING DOWN FOR DINNER!"_

_"Funny, I was under the impression that you were my daughter," I pause at her glare of contempt. "And my daughter was taught to respect her elders."_

_"Only when they're deserving of respect," she fires back quickly._

_"Emily. Go and change for dinner. You're wasting precious time."_

_"I told you, I'm not eating dinner with you."_

_"YES YOU ARE!" I yell back, having finally reached my patience threshold. I take a deep breath, and replace my anger and frustration with a neutral expression before continuing. "You will not ruin this for me. There are a lot of people coming tonight, all of them expecting to meet you."_

_She crosses her arms and narrows her eyes as she scrutinizes me._

_"I'll make you a deal, Mother." I cringe slightly at her change from 'Mom' to 'Mother'._

_" If you can tell me what I performed at my last piano recital, I'll come to dinner, be pleasant, be the darling Ambassador's daughter, and meet everyone I'm supposed to."_

_Her tone has lost its harshness, and her eyes no longer hold the fiery anger that had flamed so dangerously only moments ago. Her expression is neutral, and her eyes are seemingly devoid of any emotion. She has put on a mask and boxed away her feelings, shoving them deep down inside of her. The evenness and lack of emotion in her tone is not lost on me, she's trying to make a point._

_"You know as well as I do I was in a meeting during your recital. I couldn't just leave, there were very important people there that deserved my attention."_

_"Yeah, of course there was. Same as the one before this one, and the one before that."_

_"I'm sorry that my job takes up a lot of my time bu-"_

_"No you aren't."_

_"Emily, of course I'd love to spend more time with you, but I-"_

_"Why should I do anything for you? You do nothing for me."_

_"I'd hardly call paying for your education and providing you with the best that the world has to offer nothing."_

_"Whatever."_

_"Young lady, that's not polite."_

_"Neither is promising to be there and then not showing up," she says, her tone still unnervingly even._

_"Fine. I'll have Connie bring you up some dinner."_

_"Don't. I'm not hungry."_

_We stare at each other, arms crossed and a thick tension in the air between us. She somehow seems much older in this instant than her actual years. Something about her changes in that moment. Minutes pass before I break the silence, "Well, go on then."_

_Her eyes narrow further at my words and then she turns abruptly, walking heavily up the stairs to her room._

* * *

We didn't speak or make eye contact for a month after that. Not a single word, not a single look. She was only 10. Looking back, something broke in her that day. _I_ broke something in her that day. It was the final straw – after that day she compartmentalized and hid her emotions far away from the surface. From that moment on, our conversations were always short and to the point. She avoided me as best she could, and I went about my usual business. She escaped into her books and stopped trying to tell me about her schoolwork, her recitals, and plays. That day was the catalyst for decades' worth of strained interaction and painful distance.

I don't know what possessed me to ask, or even bring the topic up in the first place, but before I realized the words were escaping my mouth, I was asking, "Do you remember that argument we had when you were about 10?"

She puts down her fork, takes a quick sip of wine, and wipes her mouth with her napkin before answering, "You'll have to be more specific, I'm afraid. What was it regarding?"

"You didn't want to come to dinner that night," I reply. I see her expression change to one of reflection as she tries to pull the right memory from her boxes. "You had just had a piano recital a few days before that I wasn't able to attend," I continue, not really sure of where this conversation is actually headed.

"I made a deal with you – if you could name the piece I performed I would go to dinner," she says as she frowns in concentration.

"Yes, that's the one."

"As I recall that deal fell through."

"Yes. Yes it did," I say in response. My mind races, trying to fashion a way out of this awkward predicament that I'd somehow gotten myself into.

"Why do you ask?" her tone is even and her eyes are devoid of any emotion, just as they were all those years ago.

"I was just remembering it is all."

"Oh. I see."

Silence overtakes us once more as we pick up our forks and continue eating the last few bites of our meals before ordering dessert. She sits, perfectly poised, her eyes scrutinizing my behaviour and mannerisms.

Dessert arrives and she pauses before taking the first bite. Her gaze meets mine for a second before she drops it back to the dessert in front of her.

"Moonlight Sonata," she says quietly.

"I'm sorry?"

"The piece I performed at that recital. It was Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, the first movement."

"I love that piece."

"I know. That's why I chose it. My teacher thought it was too difficult for me, but I insisted. I suppose I hoped that you would have enjoyed it and been proud of me."

"Emily-"

"Mother, let me finish please."

I nod and gesture for her to continue.

"You have no idea how much it hurt to look out and not see you there. You promised me that you'd be there, and you weren't," she says in a small voice, casting her eyes downward.

For just a moment as she makes this uncharacteristic admission of emotion, she is 10 years old again, looking up at me with her big brown eyes and stringy dark hair. For just a moment I see the child whose heart and spirit I broke, the girl whose entire childhood I sacrificed for the good of my own career. For just a moment I see the girl who put up those walls and fashioned those boxes to shield herself from the pain and disappointment.

"Why didn't you come? What was it that was so important?" she continues. I see the emotion leaking through her walls, and breaking out of the boxes.

I'm left speechless. I know I should respond. I know I should explain that it was a terrible decision, and one I regret deeply. I know I should tell her how sorry I am, and try to repair some of the damage I'd caused. But the words cannot form, and years of being a diplomat have trained me to hold a neutral expression.

She lets out a long, shaky breath, and squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. When they open, the emotion has disappeared, the boxes have slammed shut, and the walls have been fortified.

"Let's just finish dessert, Mother. It would be a shame to put such delicious food to waste."

And with that she has retreated behind her defenses, and I can tell there is no coaxing her out again. I resign myself to the fact that I'd lost my daughter long ago, and there is no easy way to get her back. She is far too similar to me to simply forgive me for what I have done and move on. Like mother, like daughter.

* * *

_If you have a spare moment, I'd love to hear what you think! (=_


	10. Just One More

_**MANY **__thanks for the reviews on the last chapter. They were so detailed and thoughtful I found myself going back and reading them several times over! I appreciate each and every one, and I love to hear feedback about my writing._

_This one's a bit shorter, but it's actually one of the very first things I wrote for this story. Consider this a tease for all you Morgan-Prentiss fans._

_I suppose you could say it's somewhat tagged to "Fear and Loathing" and "Open Season"._

_Happy reading! =)_

* * *

_"And I find myself trying to stay by the phone, 'cause your voice always helps me to not feel so alone " – Fort Minor, Where'd You Go?_

It's been a few weeks since we buried her. Since we tried to say goodbye. Since Garcia has been able to smile. Since Reid hasn't wandered around with a lost look in his eyes. Since I was able to function properly.

My emotions are all over the place. I try to be strong for everyone, but there are moments where I can't seem to get a handle on my grief, or my anger. Demolished walls in my properties, an answering machine full of unanswered messages from concerned friends and family, and one voicemail on my cell phone that I can't seem to delete are all proof of this.

That message is like a drug to me. Just hearing her laugh as she tells me about a book I absolutely need to read brings a bit of peace to my mind, even if just for those 30 seconds. I'll listen to it repeatedly, hoping to remember the way she looked when she laughed, or the little mannerisms that were just so... her.

I'd come across the message the day after JJ delivered the news. The day after she left us. The day after we'd all lost a part of ourselves. The day after our family was fractured. Consumed by my own grief, I'd withdrawn from the world. I ignored all the incoming calls, the grief still too raw to speak with anyone. When I finally summoned the strength to answer one of those calls, I found I'd missed the call by a few seconds. I dialed the familiar string of numbers to access my voicemail and check the message that had been left for me.

"You have eight new messages and one saved message," the automated voice told me. I pressed my thumb to the screen to select the option to hear the new messages, but as luck would have it I didn't. Instead I heard her familiar voice, and I felt both the numbness in my heart subside and an ache settle in at the same time. I closed my eyes and felt tears make their way down my face as I listened over and over to that message, willing her to come back.

* * *

This morning is hard. It's the day of our semi-regular workout. The day that we'd train beside one another, knowing each others' movements and quirks intimately, making it all the more difficult to best one another. The day that we'd make bets on the outcome to up the ante. Loser buys the coffee, winner picks the place for breakfast, or on more ambitious days, loser takes 10 consults from the winner's pile.

I take my phone out of my pocket and dial my voicemail. I press the familiar string of numbers and hear the automated voice, "You have one saved message."

I turn on speakerphone, place my phone beside me and close my eyes, letting the familiar voice fill my silent room.

"Derek, hey. It's me, Emily. I know I'll see you at work tomorrow, and this is probably just a bit of overkill, but I just _had_ to let you know about this book. You're gonna absolutely love it. You just _have_ to read it. It's all about this..."

My thoughts wander as I smile at her rambling. She never could shut up when it came to books. I absolutely loved that about her. The always perfectly poised, independent, and classy woman I'd come to know as Emily Prentiss would sometimes let her inner nerd out, and a shy, almost vulnerable side would appear.

Over the years I'd seen flashes of this side, more as we got to know each other and became closer.

* * *

_"You have to understand. I'm a nerd. And I can fool people for days, weeks even, but sooner or later I blow my cover and say something so geeky, and then he doesn't respond and I lose all confidence."_

_"What did you say?" I reply questioningly._

_"Kilgore Trout."_

_"Guy has a problem with Kurt Vonnegut?"_

_"You know Kilgore Trout?" her tone is one of surprise, and a smile plays on her lips._

_"I read Slaughter-house Five when I was 12 and it blew my mind," her eyes and smile widen considerably at my admission. "Seriously, I couldn't get enough so I just kept going and I read 'em all."_

_She replies enthusiastically, "Yeah, yeah! Me too. What's your favourite?"_

_I reply without having to think at all, "Oh, Mother Night."_

_"The one about the American spy!"_

_"Who pretends to be a Nazi," I add with an encouraging nod._

_Her eyes flash with excitement, "You are who you pretend to be..."_

_"So be careful who you pretend to be," I finish the quote with a large smile, and see her respond in kind._

* * *

I hadn't considered the full extent of that quote until now. Perhaps there was a reason she was so attached to it. Maybe it hit home with her for all the wrong reasons. Had there come a point for her when Emily had stopped _pretending_ to be Lauren and had _become_ Lauren? She was in deep undercover for months, playing a character with no opportunity to be just Emily. She was always Lauren. Ian Doyle's Lauren Reynolds.

'Be careful who you pretend to be.'

Was that what had spurred her to leave her team and join the FBI? Declan's safety surely played a large role, but maybe it was more than that. Maybe she lost herself. Maybe she realized she needed to be careful of who she was pretending to be, because she was losing sight of exactly who she was. Maybe somewhere along the way she got scared that she wasn't just Emily playing a character anymore. Maybe she realized she needed to stop pretending to be others and start being herself.

"-anyway, sorry for this. You must think I'm insane or something. Well... I'll see you tomorrow at work."

She had left that message months before her death. I had never gotten around to deleting it, and we had never gotten around to talking about the book.

The automated voice prompts me to make another selection, and I select the option that will play it again.

"Derek, hey. It's me, Emily."

I let myself relax as her words wash over me like an ocean of calm and normalcy. Every word, every intonation, every pause, every laugh. It's committed to memory. I could recite it perfectly. But I hear something else every single time I listen to it.

* * *

_"She asked me how they could do it. How those men could hunt and kill people in the woods."_

_"What'd you tell her?"_

_"That they don't think like we do. But... The truth is... that we __do__ think like them."_

_Her gaze lowers to her hand as she focuses on picking at something indiscernible._

_"Yeah, we do, because it's our job. We need to know how it feels," I reply. There is a hint of something I can't quite place in her eyes._

_"We hunt these people every day. The question is how different are we – us and them."_

_Her expression turns to one of pensive reflection, and she breaks our gaze to look out the window once more, silence taking over._

* * *

I realize now that that expression was one of reflection, but not in the way I had assumed. Her thoughts probably turned to questions she had no doubt been asking herself for years after Doyle. Manipulation is a common skill among many of the unsubs we chase. Her CIA days are proof enough that she was a skilled liar and manipulator herself. She likely asked herself the very same question – how different was she from Doyle. He manipulated people to get what he wanted, and she – Lauren – did the same.

Or maybe she turned her thoughts to the difference between Emily and Lauren. She was undercover so long as Lauren, maybe she stopped being Emily. Maybe she gave in fully to being the character of Lauren, and it scared her. Maybe, in her mind, there was no difference between Emily and Lauren.

I'm torn on the issue. While I have trouble wrapping my head around what she did, and what she played a part in as Lauren the international weapons dealer, I can't help but think of Emily compartmentalizing it. But maybe it reached a point where the boxes in her mind finally got so full of Lauren-related things that she stopped. Maybe she just had to let herself be Lauren, and instead she started compartmentalizing Emily.

I can rationalize with myself that she took down a dangerous criminal and protected the life of an innocent young child, but when I think of at what cost, I have difficulty remaining rational. She allowed herself to get close to Doyle, allowed him to fall in love with her. And I'm convinced there's some part of her that fell in love with him, as twisted as that seems. Was imprisoning him worth that price? No doubt that's a question that Emily asked herself.

But as angry as I am with what she had done, I can't bring myself to stay that way. My thoughts and emotions always give way to fond memories. Conversations with her, unspoken moments on cases, teasing Reid about his hair, or the way she looked as she held Henry as a newborn.

The automated voice prompts me once more, and I bargain with myself. One more play, then off to work. Just one more. I hit the button, and close my eyes once more, enjoying the sound of her voice.

"Derek, hey. It's me, Emily."

* * *

_As always, if you have the time and are willing, I do so appreciate your thoughts and feedback. :)_


	11. It's a Date

_Many thanks again to those who review (particularly Annber03 - I always enjoy reading your detailed thoughts!), it does so make my day._

_There are a few of you who asked for a Hotch chapter... well here it is. It was maddeningly difficult for me - Hotch is such a hard character to write - but here it is. __Happy reading! =)_

* * *

_"The only thing more unthinkable than leaving was staying; the only thing more impossible than staying was leaving. I didn't want to destroy anything or anybody. I just wanted to slip quietly out the back door, without causing any fuss or consequences, and then not stop running until I reached Greenland." – Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love_

"Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad! Get up!"

I roll over toward the source of the abrupt noise. Jack stands next to my bed, a look of impatience on his face.

"What's up buddy?"

"Beth's making breakfast! You gotta get up or I'm gonna eat all of your waffles," he says with a smile and dashes out of the room.

I roll back over and push my head into my pillow, hoping that I can close my eyes and will time to move backward and allow me a few more hours of sleep. When that hope doesn't materialize, I sit up slowly, feeling an ache in my head. I glance at the clock on my bedside table, and see that it's early. Far too early to be up on a day that I'm not headed into the office, but I suppose not terribly early for most people. I quickly down the pills and glass of water on my bedside table, and send a silent thanks to Beth. I contemplate staying in bed for a while longer, but the smell of waffles is mouth-watering, so I jump in the shower quickly and then head toward the kitchen.

"Morning," Beth says with a smile.

"Morning," I reply, pressing a quick kiss to her lips.

"I thought I'd make breakfast and then take Jack on a bike ride to give you and Emily some space to talk."

"That sounds great, thank you."

Emily and I had made plans to meet this morning. I told her I had no intention of setting foot inside the BAU until Monday at the earliest, and she had laughed along with me. I invited her to meet at my place, promising coffee and no profiling eyes from the team. She readily agreed with a small chuckle, and we set the time to meet at 10am.

"These are really good Dad, you gotta try some," Jack says, syrup covering his face, hands and plate.

"Of course I do. They smell fantastic."

* * *

Having settled onto the couch, my feet up, and a fresh cup of coffee in my hands, I watch with amusement as Jack runs around the apartment getting his things ready for his bike ride.

"You find the waterbottles?" Beth calls from the kitchen as she puts the finishing touches on some sandwiches.

"In the fridge," Jack hollers from his bedroom.

"What about your helmet?"

"Not yet, I'm still looking."

Their conversation is interrupted by a knock at the door, and I wave off Beth's steps away from the counter, "I'll get it, don't worry."

I swing my legs off the coffee table, put down my coffee, and make my way to the door. A quick look through the peephole, and I unlock the door, opening it.

"Hey, Hotch."

"Hey. Sorry about the mess, Beth and Jack and going on a bike ride and I'm afraid you've caught them right in the middle of their last minute preparations."

"Oh it's no problem," she says with a small shake of her head and a smile. "Hi Beth."

"Hi Emily, sorry about the chaos. We'll be out of your way in a few minutes."

"Don't rush on my account!" she says quickly with wave of her hand.

"Em'ly!" Jack says as he rounds the corner, no doubt having heard her voice.

"Jack! " she says with a grin and opens her arms for a hug.

He readily obliges, throwing himself into her arms, and squeezing tightly.

"Daddy and I finished Charlie and the Chocolate Factory!" he says proudly.

"Did you like it?" she asks as she releases him from the hug.

"Yeah! What should we read next?"

"Hmm, that's a good question. I think you're just about old enough to really appreciate the Wonderful Wizard of Oz."

"Did you hear Em'ly, Dad? We gotta read that next!"

"Sure buddy," I say with a quick grin. "Now get back to trying to find your helmet."

Before meeting Emily, Jack hadn't been much of a reader. But once he began spending time with her at various team dinners and functions, her love of literature had begun to rub off on him. She had already recommended several books to him, all of which he and I had dutifully read together. We had finished the last few chapters of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory the previous night before he came crashing down from his sugar high, and he was practically bouncing off the walls to read something else. He wouldn't listen to any of my recommendations; it had to be what _Emily_ thought he should read.

Several more chaotic minutes of last minute searches for items and packing of lunches later, Beth and Jack finally left.

"He seems to be doing really well. Looks like he adores Beth," Emily comments as she sips the green tea that I'd just handed her.

"Yeah, he really does. I was worried he wouldn't like me spending so much time with her, but it hasn't been a problem at all."

We sit for a few moments, enjoying our beverages and exchanging bits of small talk before I decide to _really _open the conversation.

"So, you wanted to talk?"

She shifts in her seat, "Yeah. But I suppose you already know what it is I want to tell you?"

"You want to leave the BAU."

She sighs, "Whatever happened to no inter-team profiling?"

I smile and shrug, "It was never really a hard and fast rule…"

"Mm. I guess I threw out any hope of that after my debacle with Doyle," she said with a hint of regret in her voice.

"Maybe. It's not like we weren't profiling each other before then though. Besides, every step you took last night screamed of a goodbye."

"Yeah, you're right. It's what I wan-" she stops midway through the word to correct herself. "What I think I need."

"You think?"

"Well it's not really 100% decided in my head. I'm back and forth on it. Some days I feel totally at home, even if it's not exactly how it used to be. But other days, it really hits me that it's not ever going to be like it was before, and it's a completely overwhelming feeling."

Her admission is slightly surprising. She is a very private person, and for her to lay it all out like this is uncharacteristic to say the least. Then again, she _had_ changed since coming back from those long months in hiding.

I stay silent, knowing she is far from finished expressing her thoughts.

"I just… I can't grab onto my old life and pretend nothing happened."

"No one expects you to, Emily."

"I know, and you've all been so supportive, you especially, Hotch. But it doesn't change the fact that it doesn't feel right anymore."

"What doesn't?"

"This life," she says simply with a shrug, her gaze dropping to the mug in her hands.

I see her conflicted expression, and feel a pang of sympathy for her. She's obviously been struggling with this for a while.

"How long has it felt that way?"

She doesn't answer right away, taking a large drink from her tea first, "Since I got back."

This answer both surprises and doesn't surprise me. She tried very hard to reintegrate herself into the team when she got back, and was met with some enthusiasm, but also some anger and frustration. I watched as Reid and Morgan juggled their emotions, trying to let her back in but not being able to right away. For someone who cares so deeply about those she considers family – and that is a small group indeed – to have her efforts thrown back at her would be devastating. They let her in eventually, and their close friendships had since been rekindled, but she was right, things weren't the same.

"What is it exactly about it that makes you want to leave?"

"It's not you guys. I love the team, I hope you know that."

I nod in agreement.

"I'm just tired, Hotch. I spent years of my life getting intimately close to some of the most evil people on this earth, and then I jumped into a career of profiling and chasing them down. I've spent my career meeting and interacting with people during the worst moments of their lives. It wears on you. I'm just tired of there always being more nefarious criminals to hunt down. I guess I just reached my breaking point."

I can hear the emotional exhaustion in her voice. She had broken completely after hiding for months from Doyle. She'd slowly and roughly patched herself back together, and had brought some semblance of Emily Prentiss back for the sake of her friends and family. But that kind of event leaves a mark on you. Her eyes are still haunted, and her compartmentalization skills are not as finely tuned as they used to be. Her admission of even having a breaking point, let alone the fact that she'd reached it, would not have happened pre-Doyle.

"I'm tired of having to push everything down and ignore it. I've done it my whole life. I want to be able to live and experience life."

"Where will you go?"

"London, I think."

I blink in surprise. I had expected a transfer, or some time off before settling into something else locally. But London?

She must see the confusion on my face, because she quickly explains, "Clyde asked me to run the London office."

"That's a big promotion," I say honestly.

"Yeah, but that's not why I want to go."

"It's the change you think you need. The chance to not have to put things back to how they were."

"Exactly," she says with a sigh of relief.

"But it's more of the same work, isn't it?" I ask after a brief pause.

"In the same vein, but it's more administrative than anything."

"You, doing paperwork?"

She chuckles, "I guess that speaks volumes as to how much of a change I need."

I smile in response and we settle into silence once more. We sit like that for a minute before I broach the topic again, taking a light-hearted approach.

"You know, if you took that job you'd outrank me. And Strauss, come to think of it," I say with another smile.

She grins in return, "Well that _would_ be satisfying… And if I hadn't already pretty much convinced myself, that would've done it for sure."

"How long until you go?"

"I'm not sure. I have to talk to Clyde and figure out the details, but I'm guessing maybe a couple months. He'll be just tickled I'm taking the job."

"Oh?"

"He's been after me to come back to Interpol for a long time. He never wanted me to leave in the first place."

"Completely understandable. You really are one of the best agents I've ever worked with."

She blushes and directs the attention from herself in typical Emily fashion, "I was going to say the same about you. It's been an honour, Hotch. I know that sounds cheesy and clichéd, but it's true. You and the team are nothing short of amazing, and I'm honoured to have been a part of that."

"You played a big part in making the team amazing, Emily. Don't forget that."

She brushes off the compliment once more by diverting the conversation's topic, "Oh, I was hoping you'd give me some words of wisdom for how to not go completely insane with all the paperwork I'm going to have to deal with."

I consider her words for a moment, "Make sure your office chair and desk are comfortable."

She laughs, "I'll make sure to do that."

"Refill?"

"I'm good, thanks," she says waving off my offer.

I refill my own mug and sit back down on the couch. A comfortable silence taking hold once more.

"Thanks Hotch," she says a few moments later.

"For what?" I say, shooting her a questioning look.

"Everything."

"Of course, Emily."

"No, really Hotch. I appreciate it. I know keeping my secret wasn't easy, and the backlash from the team wasn't fair to you."

"It was what you needed. I'd do it again if I had to."

She smiles, "I'm really going to miss you. All of you."

"Likewise," I say with a smile in return. "Who else is going to keep Morgan in check?" I add with a smirk.

Instead of a chuckle or a laugh, I'm met with a look of sadness. She doesn't verbalize the reason, she doesn't need to.

"They'll understand, Emily."

"I hope so. Doesn't make it any easier. I feel like I'm going to break their hearts."

"To an extent, you are. But they'll understand that you're doing it to heal your own."

"I hope so. Derek and I talked about it last night a bit. I think he gets it, but the look in his eyes was…" she trails off and does not finish the sentence.

I don't miss the use of his first name. The two of them have been dancing around each other for years. It's painfully obvious to everyone but them, and now another curveball is going to be thrown at them.

"He'll miss you. We all will. But you're leaving the job, not the family. You'll still be important to us, and we won't just forget you."

She stares at me for a moment, probably shocked by my lack of "professional" demeanor and emphasis on the team being a family. I see her eyes glisten ever so slightly with unshed tears, and she says quietly, "Thank you."

* * *

_If you are so inclined, let me know how you liked it. I love hearing feedback about my writing, so reviews are always welcomed!_


	12. Worthy

_Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter! For those asking/commenting on the possibility of/hoping for a Morgan-Prentiss acting on their feelings for each other chapter... it is in the process of being written._

_Happy reading!_

* * *

_"Everyone needs to be valued. Everyone has the potential to give something back." – Princess Diana_

The moment Emily walked through the door to reveal her still very much beating heart to the team, though a smile was plastered to my face, my initial reaction was one of concern. She looked far too thin, and despite her admirable attempt with makeup I could see the dark rings under her eyes. Even the way she walked screamed of brokenness, a trait which no one _ever_ associates with Emily Prentiss. I knew the months of isolation from everyone she knew and cared about would weigh heavily on her, but I never imagined it would be _this_ bad. It made me question exactly how many rounds she'd gone with her own dangerously destructive thoughts.

Though she tried to hide her emotional exhaustion, her eyes ultimately gave her away. Those eyes were full of pain and distress. But despite her own emotional health, she did everything in her power to mend the relationships she'd broken with her departure. In the weeks following her return, I watched as she did everything she could to get back into the good graces of the team. She was met with varying reactions, some of which delighted her, and some of which did more damage to her already fragile emotional state.

With Garcia all it took was a hug and a promise "to never pull a stunt like that again". Rossi gave her a hug, and seemed to have had an inkling that something was up with her death all along. She tried to resume her semi-regular coffee and chess dates with Reid, and was rejected for a month straight before he gave in. Morgan took her return better than Reid did, but was still hurt from the deception, and it showed in their interactions. Where flirty and witty banter had once been, awkward silence and fragmented responses took hold, much to her disappointment. But those two would work it out eventually, that I was sure of.

Hotch and I presented a different difficulty for her to overcome. Whereas with the others she felt guilt for putting them through the ordeal of her death and deceiving them, with us she felt the need to apologize over and over for our actions to protect her. "I'm sorry you had to do all of that for me" and "You shouldn't have had to do that" were popular phrases that I'm fairly certain we each heard at least once a day. No matter how many times we tried to assuage her guilt, she would redouble her efforts to apologize.

It's painful to see her this way. She lost so much of her confidence and a lot of what made her our Emily, during those long months. Her visit with Morgan to Chicago did a lot of good, whatever happened those few days, but she still has a long way to go. And that's how she came to be sitting in my living room, beside me on my couch, shifting uncomfortably as I broached subject matter she had long since unofficially banned from discussion.

She'd done well to deftly direct the conversation elsewhere whenever anything relating to her months in isolation came up, but it was time to deal with it head on, whether she liked it or not.

"Emily, you have to talk to someone about those months."

Her eyes flame with anger, "I did. I had to get cleared for duty by the Bureau's shrink, remember?"

"Don't bullshit me, we both know you lied your ass off and told that shrink exactly what she needed to hear to be able to clear you."

She shifts in her seat, and her expression gives away her guilt on the matter.

"Em, it doesn't have to be me, or even anyone on the team, but you have to talk about it with someone."

"Why?" she spits back, her tone still harsh and irritated.

"Because it's killing you."

"No, it isn't. I'm dealing with it. I'm fine."

"You've used the word "fine" so often these past few weeks it's stopped having any meaning. Stop lying to me. Stop lying to yourself," I say forcefully, gesturing with my hands to make my point.

She doesn't say anything in response, and that silence says more than any words could have. I watch as she seems to try and fold into herself and disappear into the couch, away from my gaze.

"Em," I say, this time more softly. "I'm here, we all are. We just hate seeing you like this. It's eating at you, and we can tell you're having a rough go of it."

"So much for no inter-team profiling," she mutters under her breath.

"Don't shut us out again, Em," I say. I know it's a low blow, referencing her choice to not involve us in her fight with Doyle, but it's necessary.

Her head lowers further, and my words hit their mark. I pull her in close for a hug and feel her walls of protection begin to crumble. I can sense she's fighting internally whether to spill the emotions or not. She's chewing her lip, and her brow is furrowed, giving away her conflicted feelings.

"I didn't want to shut you out," she says quietly.

"I know, Em. I know."

"I had no choice. He would have gone after you. He had you all followed and could tell me exactly what each of you was doing to prove it to me. I couldn't let him hurt you. I couldn't let that happen."

I frown at her words, this was new information.

"You guys are my family. You're the only ones who really cared. I had to protect you."

"Care," I correct.

Her expression turns to confusion.

"We care. Present tense, not past," I clarify.

I see a few uncharacteristic tears make their way down her cheeks at my words. The dam has cracked.

"We want to help you. Let us help you."

"I can't ask that of you. I burned those bridges when I left," she says as she wipes the tears from her face forcefully.

"You don't have to ask, we're offering."

She doesn't respond, but her walls are nearly demolished completely. Her emotions, for the first time since I've known her, are clear on her face and she makes no attempt to hide them.

"We love you, Emily. Please believe that."

Her body stiffens at my words, and she tries to subtly pull away and out of the embrace. The realization washes over me in that moment. It all makes sense, given her strained-at-best relationship with her mother. She doesn't feel worthy of being loved.

With that realization, I feel a part of me break. Everyone deserves to feel loved, and to know that she doesn't believe she's worthy of that is heart-wrenching. Doesn't she know how much our hearts ached for her when she was gone? Doesn't she realize how important she is to all of us? Can't she see we'd do anything for her?

"Em-"

"No, JJ. Don't. Please," she begs, knowing what I'm going to say.

"We love you."

She cringes at my words again, and struggles against my hold on her.

"Hey, look at me. Emily! Look at me."

Her gaze rises from her hands to meet mine, but she continues fidgeting.

"It's okay to be loved, Em. You deserve it."

"No, I don't. I broke your trust, and abused our friendship."

"You did nothing of the sort, Emily Prentiss," I say in a motherly tone, leaving no room for argument.

There is no response as I take in her appearance and reaction to my words.

"You didn't hear it a lot from your mother, did you?"

Again, she doesn't respond.

"I'm sorry for that. I really am. But don't let that get in the way of things now. You've got 6 people who love you for who you are, Em. Let us in."

More tears appear, something in her eyes changes, and I think that maybe some of what I've said has sunk in. Shyly she leans into my embrace, and then all of a sudden her grip on me is tight as I feel her body shudder with pent up emotion.

Through her tears she repeats, "I'm sorry" over and over again, at a volume barely above a whisper.

I rub soothing circles on her back, and let her get her emotions out. It's been a long time coming, and there must be years of emotion to deal with. While we hadn't solved anything, and I hadn't gotten her to talk about those long months, I still feel that the conversation is a success. Maybe, just maybe, I'd convinced a part of her that she's worthy of love.

* * *

_If you're able, I do so enjoy reviews..._


	13. Mudgie, the Genius

_Thanks, of course, go out to everyone who read, and particularly those who reviewed, the last chapter. Your continued feedback reinforces my desire to keep writing, so thank you!_

_Happy reading! =)_

* * *

_"There are obviously two educations. One should teach us how to make a living and the other how to live." – James Truslow Adams_

I can't shake the feeling that she's going to run. Again. The rational part of my brain reasons that she didn't actually run, she fought to protect Declan and her family. But the rational part of my brain is not currently in control, and reason is doing very little to calm my nerves or assuage my fears. And so I find myself scrolling through the many pictures taken last night, scanning each frame and analyzing her body language in great detail.

It's her eyes that first gave rise to a niggling feeling in the depths of my mind. They seemed so filled with emotion, which in and of itself is uncharacteristic for her. I rationalized she was happy for JJ, and was celebrating the joy that permeated the air.

Then I noticed her in the background of a few photos, with an almost longing look in her eyes as she surveyed the dance floor that held the team. I dismissed it as me looking for things that weren't actually there.

Then I saw her being held by Morgan as they swayed gently to the music. She had completely melted into his embrace and her facial expression seemed to be bittersweet. Given the nature of their not-yet-actual-but-oh-so-close-to-becoming-a-reali ty relationship, I wrote that off too as merely a symptom of their refusal to acknowledge their more-than-friends chemistry.

Then I saw the picture of her and Reid dancing, and she was looking at him with eyes full of apology. Eyes seeming to plead with him to understand and to be strong.

By that point rationalization had given way to emotional reaction, and I began to worry she was going to run. Why, I wasn't quite sure, but I somehow knew she was planning to. And so I continue scrolling through the frames, looking for clues to explain why after just getting her back we were going to lose her again.

I'm startled from my musings when Mudgie pushes his head onto my lap. I give him a good scratch behind the ears and sigh.

"What am I gonna do, boy? We just got her back and she's going to leave again," I say, with another heavy sigh.

Mudgie cocks his ears and tilts his head to one side as he regards me with a curious look.

"If you've got any ideas, I'm certainly open to them, because I've got nothing."

His eyes seem to light up with excitement and he turns and walks purposefully out of the room.

"What's gotten into you?" I ask as I follow him, my curiosity getting the better of me.

Mudgie trots across the house giving a glance back every few steps to make sure I'm following. He reaches the door to my study, nudges the door open, and makes his way across the room to the cabinet that holds my more treasured and very expensive liquor. He sits down in front of it and splits his pointed stares between the latch and me.

I chuckle at his antics but make no move to do anything.

He barks loudly, and when I still don't make a move, he gets up quickly and begins pushing me toward the cabinet.

"Mudgie, quit it. _What_ has gotten into you?!" I say exasperatingly. And then it dawns on me. "Mudgie! You're a genius!"

* * *

"Dave, I can't thank you enough for the invite. This stuff is heavenly."

"It ought to be, cost me a pretty penny," I reply as I relax further into the soft leather chair.

"I trust I don't want to know exactly how much?" she asks with a knowing smile as she runs her fingers over the many volumes filling my bookshelves that line my study's walls.

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies," I say with a smile.

She pauses to take another small sip and allows her fingers and gaze to settle on a thick, hard cover textbook.

"That was the textbook for my very first psych class," I explain, noting the object of her focus.

"You kept it all these years?" she queries, casting a questioning glance in my direction.

I shrug, "Yeah."

"Most people sell them or give them to a friend taking the class. Hell, most people can't wait to get rid of them," she says as she places the tumbler of liquor on my desk and pulls the volume off the shelf.

"I could never bring myself to get rid of it. If I wasn't flipping through it and re-reading sections, I was using it as a reference for another class. Besides, it's where it all started for me."

She flips it open and turns the pages, her eyes casually drifting across the text, "I knew after my first class in psychology I wanted to study it."

"Really?"

"I was hooked from the moment the professor started lecturing. There's just something about the way he explained the intricacies of the human mind that drew me in," she says as she continues flipping the pages, occasionally pausing to focus on something more closely.

"Good professors do that. They draw you in to their subject material without you even really realizing it, like a good story teller, really."

"Yeah, they do," she says as she replaces the book on the shelf and grabs her tumbler before settling into the chair across from me.

"Did you ever consider it?" I ask.

"Consider what?" she says as she takes another sip, letting her eyes close as she enjoys the full-bodied liquid.

"Teaching," I prompt.

Her eyes open abruptly and are filled with surprise, "Me, sit behind a desk and lecture to people? I can't say I ever saw that happening, I was always way too much of an adrenaline-junkie."

"And what about now?"

She pauses and bites her lip, clearly debating how much to reveal on the subject.

"Now I think I might've reached my limit, and some time behind a desk might be what I need," she says with a tone of uncertainty.

"So you _are_ leaving," I reply.

Her eyes widen slightly before she shakes her head, "I should have known; the great David Rossi _would_ figure it out, probably before I did."

"Where are you going?"

She sighs and takes another sip – it's become her liquid courage now that we've stumbled onto uncomfortable territory.

"London."

I blink in surprise, "England?"

She nods in response, "To run the Interpol office there for Clyde."

"That's quite the promotion."

"That's what Hotch said this morning."

"How long has this been in the cards?" I ask, wondering how long she's known that she'd be leaving us.

"I've been thinking about leaving on and off since I got back, but it only really materialized during the last case when I had to get a hold of Easter for some intel."

"And have you considered a change of occupation _without_ the change in continent?" I say, unable to keep the slight tinge of hurt from seeping into my tone.

She winces slightly at my response, "Yes, but I'm not sure there's really anything left for me here."

"You're not serious?"

She furrows her brow, "I didn't mean it that way. I love you guys, I just… My life isn't the same as it was before. I can't just grab onto my old life and carry on as if nothing happened."

"And so you have to leave the country and continent to build a new life?"

"I went through hell, Dave," she says defensively.

"No one is saying you didn't Emily. What I'm saying is maybe you don't need to leave _everything_ behind in order to build something new. The roots you have aren't rotten, they're strong."

"But those roots remind me of everything that did rot," she says sadly.

"That's because you haven't had the chance to make new associations with those roots. They're there, waiting for you to let yourself experience them."

She sighs and finishes off the liquid in her tumbler, "And what kind of association are those, Dave?"

I can't contain the smirk that sneaks onto my face, "Derek Morgan, for one."

Her eyes widen and the blush that sweeps over her face is brief, but significant, despite her vehement denial.

"I'm not sure what you mean by that. He's a very good friend, a trusted colleague, and one hell of a partner but-"

"Mmhmm, and all that flirting over the years has been completely platonic?" I ask, interrupting her denial.

"Rossi, don't be ridiculous," she says, avoiding my eye contact. I don't miss the switch back to the use of my surname.

"Is it really so ridiculous? You two know each other so well, not to mention you've been to hell and back together. Even Reid has noticed the tension."

She looks stunned and is unable to form a response at first. I polish off the last of my drink and set the tumbler down on the table beside me as I give her a bit of time to process.

"Is it that obvious?" she finally asks.

"So you admit there is something there," I say triumphantly.

She glares in response.

"But in answer to your question, yes."

"Then why did he give me support when I told him I was leaving?"

"Because he's a good friend."

She doesn't respond, and her attention shifts to picking at her fingernails. Old habits die hard.

"You were hoping he'd give you a reason to stay," I say, phrasing it not as a question but a statement of fact.

A beat of silence passes before she nods minutely in response, her gaze still focused intently on her hands.

"He wants to, Bella, believe me. I see it in his eyes, he's torn between being selfish and chasing his own happiness, or putting his own happiness aside and letting you chase yours."

She fidgets in her chair for a moment before rising to her feet and returning to stand in front of the bookshelf-lined wall. Her fingers drift over the volumes once more, and I can tell she's trying to piece together something.

"Why didn't you ever initiate anything?" I ask her, taking a chance that she won't freeze and throw up her defensive walls once more.

She doesn't answer right away, instead taking some time to ponder the question, and let herself realize the answer.

"There's always been more important things going on. Cases piling up, Doyle coming back into my life, having to win back the trust of the team, trying to fix this… feeling that I have."

"Emily-"

"Don't "Emily" me, Dave," she says with a small smile, before turning her attention back to the books lining the wall. "I guess it's just easier to move on now."

"You're really telling me that leaving behind the people you consider family and fought so fiercely to protect is really the best option to fix this feeling you've got?"

"Dave, I just can't do this job anymore. It's sapping the life out of me."

"So quit your job, but stay here. You've got a family who loves you and wants you here."

"It's not that simple," she says her face twisting in regret.

I exhale in frustration, and the phrase that escapes my lips surprises me, "Emily. Please, don't go."

Her eyes squeeze shut at my words, and she wraps her arms around herself, seemingly to hold herself together. I hear her let out a long, shaky breath and watch her rub her arm absently.

"Stay for me, Bella. My old ticker can't take you running off again," I say with a small smile playing on my lips.

She doesn't respond, and continues holding herself tightly, as though she might fall apart the moment she releases her arms.

"Stay for me, and Hotch, and Garcia, and JJ, and Reid," I implore her, my tone sounding almost desperate. "Stay for Morgan – he needs you now more than ever." My words have their intended effect, and I see her tighten her grip on herself. Her closed eyes, furrowed brows, and teeth holding her lip all tell me there's a fierce debate waging in her mind.

After what seems like hours of silence, she releases her hold on herself and relaxes visibly.

"Well if I'm not going to be chasing criminals, what _am_ I going to do with myself?" she asks with a small smile.

I grin widely in return, "You'll teach in the Academy, of course."

* * *

_As always, if you have the time, I'd love to hear your thoughts!_


	14. Click

_Thank you _**_so much_**_ to everyone who left a review on the last chapter, your kind words are much appreciated. The response was nothing short of fantastic, and as a thank you, here's another chapter!_

_A bit of Morgan-Prentiss interaction in this one... Hope it meets with all the Demily shippers' approval. Happy reading =)_

* * *

_"A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen." – Edward de Bono_

It's funny how some things are forever tied to moments in your life. 'Baby girl' will forever be associated with Penelope thanks to Reid's inability to remember her actual name. Falling snow will always remind me of the time my father and I played football in early May with uncharacteristic snow falling around us and my mother screaming at us to come inside before we caught pneumonia.

But by far the most salient of these associations is the sound of clicks as high heels meet the floor. I associate this sound with the feeling of air disappearing from my lungs, my heart jumping to my throat, and a complete disbelief in what I thought was reality. But more than that, that sound, which I hear on a daily basis, reminds me of the moment Emily Prentiss walked back into my life, against all odds.

It's only been a few short weeks since that fateful day, but every time I hear high heels clicking on the floor I can't help but feel all of it all over again. I find myself sneaking a glance at the source of the noise, and more often than not seeking out Emily to reassure myself it wasn't all a dream and she is indeed back in my life.

But despite this desire to make sure she's really here, I'm doing everything in my power to avoid her. I steadfastly ignore the weak attempts by JJ and Rossi to help us reconcile, and I rebuff her efforts to sit down and hash it all out. I lock myself in my office, and when we do have to interact, it's strictly on a professional basis. Gone is the witty and flirtatious banter, the jokes and teasing, the ease with which we interacted. Now our relationship is strained, awkward, and full of unresolved tension.

I see the pain and guilt in her eyes with every brush off that I deliver, but despite the hurt I am causing her, I can't bring myself to stop. I know it's the very definition of an idiot, ass, and a jerk, but it's all overwhelming to me.

I'm just not sure exactly what I'm supposed to feel about her return – anger? relief? frustration? happiness? – they all seem so inadequate and don't fit the mess of emotions swirling in my mind and soul. Most days I'm furious with her. I can't quite wrap my head around what she did, what she _let_ him do to her. I know it was all with the purpose of taking him down, but even with that in the picture, she still crossed a line.

But with every wave of anger and frustration at her actions and refusal to ask for help also comes a wave of relief at her return. The day she disappeared to go after Doyle is the day I lost a friend, a colleague, a partner… and maybe something more than that. Everything had always been so easy with her. Talking, interacting, working together. I understood her more than anyone else – or so I thought – and she was one of the few who had managed to peel back the layers and see the real Derek Morgan. We were as close as partners could be without crossing _that_ line. The day she left us is the day I felt a permanent emptiness and ache settle into my soul. Life without Emily Prentiss had proved to be very painful. And so her return brought, along with the anger and frustration, feelings of inexplicable happiness and relief.

My late night musing is interrupted by the sound of none other than high heels clicking on the floor. I look up and find the very subject of my contemplation standing in front of me, an unreadable look on her face.

"I'm a bit busy, Prentiss-"

"We should talk," she says, interrupting my flimsy excuse.

"No," I start. "I don't have time right n-"

"Morgan, it's almost midnight. What are you doing that's so time-sensitive?"

I glare in response, "Prentiss, I told you I'm busy. I don't have time for-"

"For what? Me?"

I can't help but notice the tinge of despair in her tone, and it sends a jolt of regret straight to my heart.

I sigh heavily, "That's not what I meant."

We sit in silence, and I watch her while carefully avoiding eye contact, but taking in her fidgeting and heavily chewed fingers.

"You said you wanted to _talk_," I finally say with some frustration.

She lifts her head and I see her swallow largely as she meets my gaze.

"I was just waiting for you to explode," she explains in an uncharacteristically small voice.

"Wh-what?" I say in confusion.

"When you're angry, you stew and let whatever's bugging you fester, sometimes for days or weeks. But eventually you explode. I'm just waiting for that explosion."

"I- But- What makes you think I'm angry with you?"

"Derek," she says as her voice cracks with emotion. "You haven't said more than two words to me since I got back. You've been avoiding me. You're angry."

"Prentiss, I-"

"No, please Derek, just yell at me. Just get it out."

My eyes widen slightly with shock at her request. I'm reminded instantly of the time I broke the TV when I was 8. My mama stayed quiet and didn't yell or scream at me, instead just fixing me with an unreadable expression for what seemed like forever. I remember the fear that coursed through my veins, waiting for her to start yelling. The anticipation of it was worse than the actual yelling that finally followed.

"Please, Derek. I can't stand this tension anymore. Just yell at me. I deserve it."

I feel my heart break at her words. I stay silent, unable to form any words.

My silence seems to unnerve and upset her further, as tears begin filling her eyes. I'm taken aback by her breakdown – it's not something I've ever seen from her, not even when she was in the midst of dealing with Doyle, or dealing with the death of her childhood friend.

She continues staring at me, her eyes pleading with me, and for the first time I see just what I've done to her. She is broken, and trying hopelessly to repair the relationships she feels she broke. In this moment I feel I've let down my father more than any other moment in my life. He always told me to respect women and protect them, especially those you love.

"Emily, I'm so sorry," I finally say, breaking the uncomfortable and dangerous silence.

She shrugs and shifts on her feet a bit, "Don't be. I'm the one who should apologize."

"For what? Staying alive? Protecting us? Protecting Declan? Emily, those aren't things you should apologize for."

"I lied to everyone, brought my past into your lives, and nearly got you all killed. And then I made JJ and Hotch lie to you for months," she says as she turns around to hide her face from my gaze.

I watch as she wraps her arms around herself, seemingly to try and hold herself together, and hangs her head. The sight is too much for me and I find myself stepping in behind her and wrapping my arms around her. She tries to fight against my hold for just a moment before placing her hand on mine and grasping tightly.

I feel her body shudder as fresh tears make their way down her face, and I'm compelled to comfort her.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm right here. We're okay," I whisper to her softly as I gently let go of my hold on her and turn her around so she's facing me.

I gently push her chin up until her eyes meet mine, and I repeat the phrase.

"I'm right here, princess, and I'm not going anywhere. We're okay. You hear me?"

She nods and I wrap my arms around her, holding her tightly. I'm pleased to feel her arms wrap around my neck, and her head settle onto my shoulder as though the space were designed for that very purpose. I move one hand up to gently hold her head, and feel her body melt into mine. We stay like that for a few minutes, no longer uncomfortable with the silence that permeates the room.

When we finally do break apart, she looks up at me shyly and says, "That's much better than our last hug."

I chuckle lightly, remembering the tentativeness of our last hug in the roundtable room after she'd appeared in the doorway.

"Definitely. C'mon. Let's get you home, princess."

* * *

_As always, if you have the time, I'd love to hear your thoughts. And if there are any suggestions for specific conversations/moments, I'm certainly open to them :)_


	15. I'm You, or Maybe You're Me

_Thank you again to all those who read and leave reviews, your support is much appreciated. This conversation is a bit... different, and I really hope it makes sense. This conversation is actually the one that gave me the idea for this story, I just never felt it was 100% right until now. Happy reading =)_

* * *

_"A dream is a microscope through which we look at the hidden occurrences in our soul." – Erich Fromm_

Somehow, the months have seemed to drag on and yet fly by at the same time. It's strange for her to be living like this, assuming an identity not quite her own, and yet feels like it fits to her very core. She's been undercover before, and it shows. The ease with which lies roll off her tongue, and displays of fabricated love and passion convince her targets are evidence of this. At least, they used to be. But despite her past experience, nothing has prepared her for this.

The feelings have become real. The lies have become truths. The passion in her eyes is not entirely fabricated. It's not just an act anymore. The divide between them has disappeared.

And this is unsettling to her. _Very_ unsettling.

She sits on the beach of the property she calls "home", staring out over the water with absent eyes. Her arms surround her folded legs, and her feet are buried in the cool sand. Her fingers bear the evidence of her growing stress. She mutters words unheard by anyone; there is no one to hear them – they've gone for the weekend. She seizes her opportunity to be lost in her thoughts without consequence.

To most people, her current actions would seem to betray a fractured psyche and clouded mind, and this is not entirely untrue. There is a saying that goes something along the lines of: "Talking to yourself isn't grounds for a categorization of crazy; it's when you start answering yourself that people start getting concerned." Seems in some way appropriate.

"I'm in deep, aren't I?" she says with a sigh, to no one in particular.

_"You could say that."_

My response seems to startle her a bit, but her gaze remains fixed on the horizon, as if steeling herself against my words.

_"It's no use pretending you didn't hear me," _I tell her. _"I'm very much here; you may as well accept it."_

Minutes pass before she speaks again, "Tsia was right, I was crazy to take this on."

_"Someone had to."_

"What, and it had to be me?" she spits back bitterly, finally acknowledging my presence. "There are literally dozens of other agents Clyde could have recruited."

_"You made that choice."_

"No, I didn't. Clyde did."

_"Sure," _I say with an even tone of voice. It infuriates her.

"He did!"

_"Okay," _I respond again, my tone still neutral.

"I swear to you, it was his decision. I'm just a pawn in his chess game. I don't get a choice in the moves I make. My life is not my own."

Her words, inasmuch as they are directed at me, are to convince herself, I think. My silence unnerves her, she feels the need to make me understand and believe her, and so she repeats the quasi-mantra.

"I'm only here because he made that choice for me."

_"You know that's not true, Emily," _I finally call her bluff.

She huffs in frustration, and glares with a look that could well kill someone.

_"The longer you take to accept that, the more painful this will be," _I warn her.

"What are you, my resident conscience?"

I chuckle, _"Far from it."_

"Well then, who or what are you?"

_"I think you're well aware of who I am."_

"If I was, I wouldn't have asked," she snaps.

_"Well, you didn't ask nicely, so I think I'll just let you come to that realization on your own."_

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?"

_"So I've been told."_

Her body continues humming with anger and frustration, and her eyes are ablaze with a fury. She stays like this for a few minutes before her expression finally softens. Her eyes now portray a thoughtful reflection. The sun has nearly made its way below the horizon, and she shivers as shadows cover her, and a cool breeze envelopes her. She pulls her sweater tighter around herself and hugs her legs closer to her body.

I can see very clearly the moment she connects the dots and realizes who I am.

"You're her, aren't you?"

_"Yes,"_ I reply plainly.

"Oh god, I've gone crazy, haven't I?" she says as she scrunches her eyes closed in disbelief.

_"I wouldn't say so, but you're certainly a better judge than I am."_

Her eyes open quickly at my response. "I'm talking to someone who doesn't exist," she says, as if to make sure that it's really the case.

_"Who says I don't exist?"_

"I do."

_"Why not?"_

"Because you're not really here. You're not a real person."

Her words are not directed at me, but at herself, I think. She is trying, perhaps in vain, to convince herself. Several more minutes pass, and I'm content to let her continue to reflect and ponder.

She breaks the silence in a small, almost helpless voice, "You're me, aren't you?"

I don't respond, and my silence encourages her.

"Or maybe I'm you."

_"Maybe."_

"Which one is it?"

_"What do you think?"_

She takes a moment to consider my question.

"We switched, didn't we?"

_"That's one way of explaining it," _I say slowly.

"I'm the compartmentalized identity now?"

_"I suppose you could put it like that."_

She takes a moment to let that realization wash over her. I can see her mind's wheels spinning frantically, assessing the consequences of this change in balance.

"I really need to get out, don't I?"

_"That's a decision for you to make, not me."_

"But you're rather involved with the process, wouldn't you say?"

_"It's still your decision, not mine."_

"Yeah, I suppose it would be," she muses to herself. "I think I've gotten enough to put him away and get out of here for good. I can get them out before anyone even knows he exists. They'll never know. He'll be safe, away from him."

Her words are strengthening her and weakening me. The balance is shifting. She's regaining the upper hand, and I'm slipping back into merely a role to play.

"This is a dream, right? You're just a manifestation of my anxieties and worries?"

_"Does it make anything we've talked about any less important if that's all I am?"_

"Not really, no."

_"Then what does it matter?"_

"I guess it doesn't."

* * *

_As always, if you have the time, I'd love to hear your thoughts._

_As an aside, I have quite a few conversations I'm excited to post in the near future! :)_


	16. Lurrrrrrrrrve

_Thanks go out again to those who read and review the chapters. Your feedback is always appreciated. Jumping back into the mind of the great Penelope Garcia in this one... I find her character very difficult to write, so here's hoping she's convincing. Happy reading =)_

* * *

_"The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death." – Oscar Wilde_

"EmmyEmmyEmmyEmmyEmmyEmmyEmmy!"

"Bonjour, mon petit!" Emily says as she picks up a speeding Henry and hugs him tightly, pressing kisses to his forehead and cheeks, which prompt a wide grin to spread across his face. For a woman who stands toe-to-toe with some of the earth's most foul individuals every day, and had a supremely less-than-warm childhood, she is surprisingly affectionate with children.

"No fair, how come he knows your name?" I reply with a pout.

"Because 'Emily' is significantly easier to pronounce than 'Penelope'?" JJ offers with a shrug.

Emily is too busy crooning to Henry in French and tickling him to notice my conversation with JJ. I swear she forgets anything and everything she's thinking about when that kid is around.

"But I shower him with presents and spoil him rotten! I'm his fairy godmother! Shouldn't that count for something?!"

"I'm sure he'll appreciate that once he's showing off all his new tech toys to his friends. But for now, he goes with the names he can pronounce," JJ says with a chuckle.

Henry is giggling uncontrollably, and Emily's laughter soon joins his as he presses his face into her neck. That little boy really does adore her. And she certainly seems to adore him. It warms my heart to see her this way – it's such a contrast to her professional demeanor that I'm used to. It's different from the 'outside-of-work' Emily I know too. It makes me wonder just why Emily Prentiss is not already a mom – she's clearly meant to be one.

"Okay Henry, I think you and your dad have some stuff to do, don't you?" Emily says with just a touch of sadness in her tone.

"That's right. C'mon buddy, let's go," Will says as he sweeps into the room and grabs Henry from Emily's arms. "Give momma a kiss."

Henry obliges and gives JJ a kiss on the cheek and turns back to his dad, his eyes alight with excitement.

"Hey! What about me? You just stole him away from me!" Emily says with a mock pout, hand on her hip to emphasize her point.

"Okay, okay. Give your Aunt Emily a kiss, Henry."

Will steps closer to Emily to allow Henry to lean over and plant the most adorable but very slobbery kiss on her cheek. He keeps his face in front of hers for a moment and grins widely when she scrunches her face with a smile, touching her nose to his.

"Emmy!" he exclaims, reaching his arms toward her once more.

"Sorry handsome, you've gotta stay with your dad," she says, again with a hint of sadness in her voice, as she tousles his hair.

"Hey! Don't forget your Auntie Penelope!" I say, wanting a kiss from this precious little boy.

"'Course not," Will drawls as he steps closer to me, and Henry leans in and plants a slightly-less enthusiastic, but still very slobbery kiss on my cheek.

"Oh, aren't you just the cutest baby boy, ever!" I exclaim with glee.

"Okay you three, try to behave, won't you?" Will drawls as he smirks.

"Not a chance, good sir!" I reply with a wink.

"I'll see you later. Have a good time," he says as he kisses JJ gently. Those two are completely and utterly sickeningly adorable.

* * *

"So PG, are you and Kevin ever going to, you know, have some baby tech geniuses?" Emily asks, smoothly directing the line of questioning away from her.

"Hey, I wasn't done asking you questions," I reply with a pout.

"You _have_ been interrogating her for 20 minutes straight Pen. I think the subject change is fair," JJ answers diplomatically. Curse her and her level head.

"It's not my fault her worldly travels are interesting! She's like a superhero - her past is still shrouded in complete mystery."

Emily scoffs in response, shaking her head, "You didn't answer my question."

"Err, well it's not really something we've talked about," I shift uncomfortably in my seat. "Hey, how come you don't have any mini crime-fighters of your own?"

"Oh no you don't. If I had to talk about my strained relationship with my mother, and that arrogant, jerk Mick Rawson, then you're gonna have to give me more than that," she says casting a quick glance out the window.

Damn. She's good.

"I- Well- Maybe."

JJ and Emily merely stare at me, their raised eyebrows clearly demanding more explanation.

"I'm not entirely sure the whole 'motherhood' thing is really for me. I think I might be content to play fairy godmother and the oh-so-utterly-amazing aunt roles."

"But..." Emily prompts.

"But, if Kevin wants to..." I trail off. "I answered your question, now it's my turn."

"No, you half-answered my question. What's the end of that sentence? If Kevin wants to then... what?"

"Then I guess it's something I'd consider."

"How seriously would you consider it?" JJ interjects.

"I don't know. Enough. It's not something I'd just agree to blindly, even if I can't say no to his handsome face. And those eyes – OH those eyes."

Emily's phone begins ringing for the third time tonight.

"Sorry," she says as she pulls it out of her purse.

Her brow furrows as she looks at the screen, and she blows out a breath slowly before turning off the phone altogether.

"Everything okay?" JJ asks her.

"Yeah, it's fine," she says with another slow exhale. "Just some random long-distance callers. Probably calling to tell me about a new credit card I'm eligible for, or a cruise I've miraculously won despite not entering any draws."

"Oh god, I hate those," I reply.

"Yeah, definitely a pain," JJ adds. "More drinks?"

"Yes please!" I say enthusiastically.

"I'm good Jayje, thanks," Emily says.

"Hey now, what's this? We've got the whole weekend off to recover from this. And you, Emily Prentiss, never turn down a drink. What's up?" I ask with a tinge of concern. It's really not like her at all. Not that she's an alcoholic or anything, but she can, and usually does give even Rossi a run for his money.

She shrugs and shifts in her seat, "Nothing, just don't really feel like waking up with the hangover from hell."

"Can't handle your liquor anymore, Prentiss?" JJ says, goading her a bit.

Emily just glares in response, "You're one to talk Jareau. I seem to recall a visit to a bar after a case where I _literally_ carried you back to the hotel. And you'd only had a couple drinks."

"Hey! They were strong drinks. The bartender was flirting with me and was being very liberal with the alcoholic portions of the fruity drinks I ordered for us."

"How come I didn't get plastered then?" Emily responds with a smirk.

"I- Well he obviously didn't like you, so my drinks were stronger."

"Whatever lets you sleep at night, JJ," Emily says, failing spectacularly to contain her smirk.

"When did this happen? Why was I not informed? More importantly, why was I not THERE?" I interject, confused about the topic of their discussion.

"It was after a case wrapped up, and we weren't scheduled to return home until the next morning. So Emily, Morgan and I hit up a local bar to drown some of the rather nasty feelings left from the case. Morgan got a call from his mom and had to leave, so Emily and I were left to do the BAU proud."

"Where was this?" I ask, trying to determine which case it was.

"Uh..." JJ frowns in concentration.

Emily continues smirking.

"You know what, it doesn't matter. Those are the important details, Pen. I promise," JJ says.

I narrow my eyes and give her a look that says "you better not be lying to me".

"Bring me my drink and all is forgiven!" I exclaim.

"Copy that!"

* * *

"Em? Emily. Hey, Em!"

"Hmm? I'm sorry, what did you say?" she says in response as she turns her head quickly to face me.

I'd caught her peering out the window again. She'd been doing that a lot tonight. Who knows why. This woman, for all I know about her, remains a mystery to me.

"Is there a hunky guy out there or something?" I ask as I quickly scan the scene outside.

"What? Oh, no. I'm just looking at the stars," she says quickly. Maybe just a little too quickly.

JJ and I share a look, my eyebrow raised in question.

"Mmhmm. I'm sure," JJ says with a doubtful expression on her face.

Emily just shrugs, "What time is it anyway?"

"Just past 12," I reply after a glance to my watch.

"I should head home soon. I unfortunately have a good chunk of paperwork to catch up on and I'll need at least some sleep to get any of it done. I've been avoiding it the last little while in hopes it would disappear. It hasn't," she says with a small smile.

"Not before I ask the question I've been dying to ask!" I reply with a wide grin.

"Oh no. I don't like the look or sound of that," JJ says as she finishes off her drink.

"Not to worry my loves, it's nothing too terrible. Just a little question about lurrrrrrrrrve."

"Lurve?" they both respond in confusion. My goodness, where had these two been living, under a rock?

"Love, of course. So, out with it. Have you ever been in love?"

"Pen, that's a silly question, I have Will."

"It's not so crazy, Jayje. Yours and his relationship raises more than a few eyebrows. Just why haven't you married him yet?" I reply. It's a topic that confuses the best of us. And it's a question I've wanted an answer to for a while now.

"It's complicated."

"It's really not. He's amazing, Henry is adorable and you clearly love them both dearly."

"Well yeah, but that's not all there is in the equation."

"What else is there?"

"Pen, let her be. It's JJ's to deal with," Emily says forcefully. Not in a mean way, but in a very Emily Prentiss 'I really do mean what I say' kind of way.

My focus shifts to Emily, "Fine. But you, my currently unattached raven-haired beauty of a crime-fighter, still have to answer."

"_Have_ you ever been in love?" JJ asks, her curiosity clearly piqued.

Emily's gaze seems to drift far away from the present moment and her expression turns thoughtful. She's likely lost in a memory, which is more than I thought I'd get from her. I assumed she'd either shift the topic again, or else skillfully avoid answering the question in some way like she always does. Her considering the question means I'm in for an answer of some kind. She frowns, as if she's arguing with herself, and shakes her head minutely.

"I'm not sure," she finally says slowly. "In a way, maybe. But he was..."

She trails off, clearly trying to choose her words carefully. The mere seconds of waiting seem like forever in my mind. An admission like this is uncharacteristic of Emily to say the least.

"Far from ideal," she finally finishes.

"Doesn't have to be ideal to be love, sweet cheeks," I reply.

"I know. This one was... complicated though. I think a part of me might have loved a part of him. But I'm not sure it was really me that loved that part of him."

"Wait, what?" JJ asks with a confused look.

"Sorry, I'm not making any sense. I guess I really do need sleep. I'm really not sure Pen. I wish I could give you a more definitive answer than that," she apologizes.

I narrow my eyes at her vague response, but going against my inner sleuth's advice I drop it, "Well I'm sure you'll be swept off your feet by an amazing man one day. I just hope I'm there to see the day Emily Prentiss becomes mushy and romantic."

She smirks, "Who says I want to be swept off my feet?"

"Don't try to tell me you haven't fantasized about some deliciously sexy guy who carries a gun and badge-"

"Don't forget the accent! He will most definitely have an accent!" JJ says with a smirk toward Emily, clearly still holding the image of Mick Rawson in her head.

"- and has an accent coming and sweeping you off your feet, and having his wicked way with you."

"I haven't," she replies plainly. "Really. And another thing, who said _that_ was my type?! You two just made that up."

"Are we wrong?" JJ challenges her.

"Well no," she admits slowly. "Not entirely."

"Oh, so who _is_ Emily Prentiss' ideal man?" I ask excitedly. She never reveals anything about herself – this is new territory for us.

"Sorry ladies, must be going. My bed calls to me, and piles of paperwork want to have _their _wicked way with me," she says as she stands and collects her coat and purse.

"But Emmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!" I whine.

"Nice try Pen, if Henry's whining doesn't work on me, yours definitely isn't going to."

My lips form a pout.

"Not going to work, PG. May as well just accept it," she says placing a hand on my shoulder to emphasize her point.

"You're gonna be the toughest mom ever when you have kids," I say in response, partially to provoke her, and partially to gauge her reaction.

JJ laughs, "Haven't you seen her with Henry and Jack? I'm pretty sure she'd rob a bank for them if they asked. Despite what she's trying to convince you of, their whining more often than not tends to work. She might even spoil them more than you do, PG."

"Hey! How did I go from being a hard-ass to a complete pushover? Can't I have middle ground here?"

"No," we reply in unison, grins widening on our faces.

She sighs, "Come here you two."

She pulls us into a tight hug, and promises another girls' night sooner rather than later. I huff in frustration; I had been oh-so close to getting real information from her.

"Shall I call you a cab, PG?" JJ asks.

"Nah, I'll text Kevin."

I would get it out of her. My initial snooping and internet trolling upon her joining the team hadn't brought anything terribly interesting up, so any information would need to be extracted directly from the source. I _need_ to know who this mystery man and potential love from her past is, and most definitely need to know just what _is_ Emily Prentiss' type.

* * *

_If you have the time, I'd love to hear what you think! =)_


	17. Four Items

_My heartfelt thanks for your reviews on the last chapter. I always look forward to hearing what you think._

_Quick note: the song "End of the World" from the Beasts of the Southern Wild soundtrack served as my inspiration for this chapter - so much so that it made it into the chapter (though not by name). I really feel it adds something to the chapter, so I encourage you to give it a listen._

_Happy reading =)_

* * *

_"Grief does not change you, Hazel. It reveals you." – John Green, The Fault in Our Stars_

I scroll through my contacts on my phone until I reach her name and select the option to call. No answer, of course, but I decide to leave a message. After the familiar greeting and request to leave a name and number, I take a deep breath and begin my efforts of mending the terribly broken relationship I have with my daughter.

"Emily, it's your mother. I'm in town this week and was hoping to meet up with you for lunch. I know you and your team are likely busy, and I don't want to interfere with that, but I would love to see you."

I pause for a moment, remembering that she, now more than ever, probably doesn't even want to hear my voice. What I wouldn't give to be able to explain everything.

"I know our last conversation was…tense. But a lot has happened since then," I say, noting the somewhat surprising vulnerability in my tone.

I take another deep breath and continue, "There are some things I owe you an explanation for, and many more that I owe you an apology for. I'd like the opportunity to give you those explanations, and express my apologies. After that, I won't bother you. Just…give me a call. Please, Em."

I try for a moment to think of something to say in closing, but decide against saying anything else. I end the call and let out a heavy sigh. I sit for nearly 10 minutes lost in my own thoughts, before diving back into the headache-inducing reports that are piled on my desk. Every so often, I catch myself glancing at my phone, hoping it will ring. It doesn't.

* * *

A few days pass, and my limited time in the U.S. continues to dwindle. My mind is surprisingly far from the piles of paperwork and call sheets that still sit on my desk, demanding my attention. Instead, my thoughts are focused on her.

I can't recall the exact details of the call, the time of day it came at, or even where I was when it came. But I do remember finding it incredibly hard to breathe, and feeling overwhelmingly sick. My assistant told me I sat and stared at the wall for almost an hour with what she described as a "dead expression" on my face. I don't remember that, but I do remember the feeling of emptiness that took hold and the fierce denial that came afterward.

Agent Jareau called again a few days later with details of her funeral, and I set about trying to get to the U.S., a process made incredibly difficult by the political instability of the region I had been visiting as an Ambassador. Demonstrations and violent protests kept me from leaving for over 2 weeks. To have to bury your daughter is one thing, but to not be able to do so because you're stuck in a foreign country, unable to leave, is quite another. The day of her funeral, I locked myself in my bathroom and sobbed. It was uncharacteristic of me – the last real tears I'd shed were many, many years before – but something in me shifted. In a cruel twist of fate, that day I felt more like a mother than I had in a very long time.

When I finally did manage to make it to the U.S., I visited her final resting place and wasn't surprised to see a plethora of bright flowers arranged, no doubt courtesy of the technical analyst in the BAU. Emily really was closer to her team than to anyone in her biological family. I stood, unmoving and silent, in front of her grave. I tried to find words of some kind – any kind, really – but as had been typical for my interactions with her over the past few years, I wasn't able to. After a while, I placed the flowers I'd brought with me down gently, squeezed my eyes shut, and breathed deeply.

I remember that the only words that eventually came to mind were so woefully inadequate, but they were all I had, and so, in a tiny whisper I forced them out, "I'm sorry."

I retreated to my car, directed my driver to our old summer house, and stared out the window at the passing scenery. A couple of hours later I found myself climbing the stairs to her old room…

_There was nothing left in the house except some sheets covering a few lonely pieces of furniture, and a few odd knick-knacks here and there. For the most part, the house feels empty and barren, but I can't help but feel a spark of something that I can't quite describe when I enter her room._

_Dust had long since settled on the surfaces of the room and still hangs heavily in the air, clearly visible in the streaks of sunlight streaming into the room through the window. Her closet door is slightly ajar, and curiosity – or perhaps hope – gets the better of me as I pull it open carefully. My eyes immediately fall on a loose floorboard in the back corner, and again with curiosity and hope rising in me, I pry it up._

_Inside the small hiding spot I find a few things: a small music box, her copy of 'The Wonderful Wizard of Oz', a dream catcher, and a broken pocket watch that used to belong to my father. I smile and feel emotions deep within me stir as I gaze at the objects and run my fingers over them. I open the music box, wind it, and let the music play. Its notes carry throughout the empty house, and I'm flooded with memories of the song repeating over and over again for hours on end, emanating from her room. The song continues its hopeful, yet mournful tune as I continue my examination of the most precious items of her childhood._

_I carefully open the book, and I'm surprised when my own writing jumps out at me on the first page,_

**_To Emily, my little bookworm.  
This was one of my favorites when I was your age.  
I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.  
Love, always,  
Mom_**

_I had forgotten I'd given her this. My fingers trace the writing as tears form in my eyes, and the music box's sorrowful song continues. It was from a time when she had been more important to me than my career. A time when we were both happy, and laughed together. A time when she didn't resent my very existence. A time when she was alive in more ways than one._

_I close the book gently, place it on the ground beside the music box and pick up the dream catcher. The intricately woven web and feathers are dull in colour after all these years, but their beauty is still clear. I wonder absently whether this would have helped with the nightmares she faced everyday in her job and no doubt followed her home at night as well._

_The song has stopped and so I wind the music box again, allowing its sounds to fill the house once more. I pick up the pocket watch and flip it open, noting its time is still frozen at 3:51, as it has been for many decades. My father had never gotten around to getting it fixed, and instead carried it around broken. Emily had always been fascinated with it as a child, laughing whenever she asked him what time it was and he responded with, "3:51! It's __**always**__ 3:51!"_

I'm startled out of my memory by the ringtone of my phone. I glance at the screen and smile as her name appears on the display.

"Hello?"

"Mother. Hello." Her tone is sharp and her words quick – she's expecting a fight, and given our history I can't blame her.

"You got my message then?" It's a foolish thing to say, but the awkwardness and strain permeates between us, so we're both reduced to saying redundant things.

"Yes. You said you wanted to do lunch?"

I pause before answering, considering how the lunch will go if she feels she's been forced to be there.

"Only if you'd like to. I know you and I don't see eye to eye on many things, and it can make for some strained conversation and awkward silence. But I really would like to explain some things to you. And of course apologize."

I can tell she's assessing the truth of my words and tone by her lack of immediate response. I hold in a sigh, and close my eyes, hoping she'll accept.

"Does tomorrow around 1 work for you?"

My eyes fly open and I glance at my day planner - a meeting at 1:15pm. I open my mouth to suggest another time, but close it quickly, realizing that at some point she needs to take priority in my life again.

"That's perfect. Any place you'd like to go? My treat, of course."

"Hmm. How about that Italian place we went last time? The food was excellent."

"Yes, it was. That sounds perfect, I'll make reservations."

"Okay."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Emily."

"See you tomorrow, Mother."

I put down my phone and can't help but smile widely. Even if her walls and guards are up, it's the opportunity I'd hoped I would get.

* * *

I arrive a few minutes early, and sit down at our table, anxiously awaiting her arrival. 10 minutes pass before I see her enter the restaurant, her face full of frustration. She makes her way to the table, her pace quick. She shrugs off her coat, hangs it up, and hangs her purse on her chair. I stand and we face each other, neither of us quite sure how to proceed. I smile and gesture for us to sit, she nods in response.

"Sorry I'm late, traffic was a bi- Traffic was really heavy through the city."

"It's fine, you're here now, that's what matters," I say, a smile appearing on my face.

She regards me with a scrutinizing look, "Did you order?"

"No, I thought I'd wait for you," I reply with another smile. I can't help the smiling – it's so good to see her alive.

"Ah, well thank you."

"Of course."

We settle into a silence as we read the menu, which hasn't changed drastically since our last visit here a few years ago.

The waiter comes by, takes our orders, and disappears to fetch our wine.

She avoids my gaze for a few minutes, examining the silverware on the table and the paintings that hang on the wall in great detail. When her eyes finally meet mine, I smile once more.

"So Emily, how are you settling back into the BAU?"

"Fine." Her response is quick and pointed, she's expecting a fight, just as she did on the phone yesterday.

"And you've found a place to stay?"

"For now, yes."

"All the requisite paperwork is in order? I'd imagine coming back from the dead is a paperwork nightmare," I chuckle lightly, making an attempt at humour. Her lack of response prompts me to step back onto a more serious conversation track, "If there's anything you need pushed through the system, I could make a few calls to fast track it."

"Everything's being looked after, thank you."

I sigh, "Emily, I didn't call you to pick a fight or dredge up old arguments. I really did want to see you."

"Of course," she replies, her tone even. "Can I ask you a question?"

I nod in response.

"Did you ever love me? Was I ever wanted? Or was I just a colossal waste of time for you?"

Both the bluntness and implications of her words cut straight to my heart, and the look in her eyes makes me close my own to stem the flow of tears I feel forming. Her tone is harsh, and I can tell she's been letting this frustration stew for months. So this is the fight she wants to have.

I open my eyes and find her hurtful gaze still on me.

"Of course I love you. You're my daughter."

"Really? Because your actions tell a different story."

"Emily, I know I haven't been the perfect mother-"

She scoffs, interrupting my response, but I continue.

"I made mistakes, and made the wrong decision on many occasions, all of which I regret. And yes, maybe I put my career ahead of you and didn't try hard enough to balance work and family. And if I could go back and change that I would. But I have always loved you. I will always love you, even if you decide you don't want to stay in contact. You are my daughter," I say, my voice cracking with emotion and tears threatening to fall. She may think me an ice queen, but things have changed.

Her expression changes as her eyes flit to the moisture in the corners of my eyes, and she hears the cracks in my voice. I can see the moment she believes what I'm saying is genuine. Her gaze softens, and she tilts her head ever so slightly. I take this as a sign to push on.

"When Agent Jareau called and told me you had died... It sounds clichéd, but a piece of me really did die. It's hard to explain, especially given our difficult relationship, but when you're a mother, it doesn't matter that you're not speaking to your child, it still hurts. Something switched off in me. I took leave for a few months to try and get a handle on things, but until I got the phone call explaining that you were alive, I felt broken and incomplete."

"Why weren't you at my funeral then?" she asks quietly, her gaze fixed on the table in front of her. It's the question she really wanted to ask. It's the subject she was ready to argue about.

At her question I feel the dam break and tears make their way down my face. Her expression turns to shock.

"I couldn't get there. I tried for days to get on a flight, and I very nearly paid out my entire bank account by trying to get tips and information that would help me fly out. But the uprising was at its peak and the violence and demonstrations kept me grounded."

"You weren't just busy?"

"Em, I couldn't do _anything_ that week. Ask my assistant – I was completely useless. The day of your funeral I was inconsolable. They had to sedate me to calm me down."

Her expression is a mix of shock and guilt. Her mouth opens to say something, but it seems she can't find the words. Moments pass before she can croak out anything in response, "I'm sorry."

I shake my head, "I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you before it all happened. I'm sorry I put my career first, and ignored you completely. I'm sorry I wasn't a better mother."

We reach a silent understanding of some kind and she takes a sip of the wine the waiter had brought around the time we were discussing her reintegration into the BAU. I excuse myself to freshen up a bit, and attempt to get a handle on my emotions. After a few minutes, I return to find our food had been brought out.

I sit down, and we eat in silence. We finish our meal and enjoy dessert before I finally break the silence.

"When I finally got to the U.S., I went to our old summer house."

"I thought you'd sold the place when we left for Europe," she says in surprise.

"Just emptied it out and sold most of the furniture."

"Oh."

"Anyway, I spent some time in your old room and found a few things in there. I thought you might like to have them."

She nods in response.

I grab my bag and retrieve the four items, placing them on the table in front of us. She reaches her hand out to gently trace the edges of the music box.

"I remember this. Does it still work?"

I nod, "Yes."

She opens the pocket watch and chuckles lightly.

I smile knowingly, "Still 3:51, right?"

"Always," she says in response, echoing the oft-repeated conversation.

Her attention shifts to the dream catcher, her fingers examining the intricately woven web and still soft feathers.

"It's funny, after we left that house and I left this behind, my nightmares did come back," she muses.

Her eyes turn to the book, and I hear her let out a long breath. She opens it, and her eyes are drawn to the inscription on the first page. Just as I had done all those months ago, she traces the words with her fingers. A small smile plays on her lips as she reads it, and her gaze lifts to meet mine. I see tears in the corner of her eyes.

"It wasn't all bad."

"No," I agree. "It wasn't."

* * *

_If you have a spare moment, I'd love to hear what you think! :)_


	18. Resuscitation

_As always, many thanks to those who read and review! I love reading your thoughts on my writing, and I do read each and every one._

_Happy reading =)_

* * *

_"It is worth dying to find out what life is." –T.S. Eliot_

"Reid, hey. Sorry I'm late, I got stuck in traffic on the way here," Emily says quickly as she throws her coat over the back of the chair, hangs her purse up and shoots me an apologetic look.

"It's mostly my fault for suggesting this time. A recent department of transportation study conducted here in the city found that depending on the distance to be travelled, a person's commute during peak traffic times can be up to three to four times longer than during non peak hours," I reply with a reassuring smile.

Her expression turns to one of amusement, "Oh, how I missed your rambling. I'm gonna grab a drink, you want one?"

I hold up my cup of hot coffee, "No thanks, I've already got one."

She raises an eyebrow in response, "And how much longer until you finish it?"

"Taking into consideration my last intake of fluids and depending on the depth of our conversation's subject matter it could range anywhere from-"

"O…kay, I'm getting my drink now," she says, interrupting my thought process.

I watch as she retrieves some cash from her wallet and heads toward the register to order. My gaze drifts to the paper on the table in front of me. It's a local paper, and the lead story describes how a young girl had fallen into a pool, and being unable to swim, would have drowned if not for the heroics of her family's Labrador retriever, Schroeder.

My thoughts instantly turn to the events of our last case, where the unsub had been drowning and resuscitating his victims in order to see if their experiences with death had changed. The conversation we'd had as a team that brought that very theory to fruition is what my mind focuses on.

_"But come on guys. Gentle lights, shadowy figures? Those are the lights in the emergency room and the doctors hovering over the patients, we all know that. No one actually sees the afterlife," Morgan says with a hint of irritation and skepticism in his voice._

_His words remind me of my own experience, and to further our collective theorizing I reveal something I've never told anyone._

_"I did."_

_Everyone's heads turn to face me in surprise, except Emily, whose face is unreadable. Their questioning gazes prompt me to explain myself, "Before Tobias Hankel resuscitated me I had that exact experience, and I wasn't in an emergency room. I was in a shed."_

_Morgan's tone is gentler as he speaks, "Reid, you never told me that."_

_"I'm a man of science. I-I- I didn't know how to deal with it. There's no quantifiable proof that God exists, and yet in that moment I was faced with something that I couldn't explain. Still can't."_

_"What if this unsub has had a similar experience and this is his way of looking for answers?" Hotch interjects, bringing us back on topic._

_"If that's the case, why kill Jake Shepherd? Why not just talk to him?" Rossi adds._

_I'm somewhat surprised when Emily joins in with a confident tone, "He wanted to see if he had the same experience as before."_

_"Once isn't enough?" JJ asks, not quite believing it._

_"Not if Jake didn't see the same thing the unsub did. He wants to know if the experience can change. I can relate to that," Emily responds._

_She shifts slightly in her seat when she realizes we're all looking at her questioningly. It's as if she wasn't quite aware of what she revealed._

_She exhales before clarifying, "Reid felt a warmth and saw a light. When I coded in the ambulance, all I felt was cold and darkness."_

_Her eyes studiously avoid all of our gazes and she turns her head downward, as though she is ashamed of revealing this information._

_I see Morgan release a breath and close his eyes as a pained expression crosses his face momentarily, before he replaces it with a neutral one and focuses his gaze back on her. JJ's eyes widen and a sympathetic look graces her features._

_"And I would like to think that there's a different future waiting for me," Emily finishes._

_Perhaps it is my innate need to confirm what I'd heard, or perhaps it is because I'd finally accepted that she did not die at Doyle's hands, but nevertheless my mouth opens before I'm entirely cognizant of it._

_"You actually died?"_

_Her head lifts at my words and her face is a mixture of regret, guilt, and pain. She breathes in deeply as she closes her eyes to regain her composure, but none of us are fooled._

"Reid. Reid?"

I'm brought back to the present by her voice calling my name, "Sorry, what were you saying?"

She frowns, "Are you okay?"

"Fine," I say with a half-hearted smile, but her expression tells me she isn't fooled by my efforts.

"I was just thinking," I say vaguely, hoping it will be enough to pacify her.

She laughs lightly, "When _aren't_ you thinking?"

I frown slightly, "Studies have shown that actually we're always-"

"Reid, it was a joke."

"Oh."

"Now, are you going to tell me what's got you looking so pensive, or am I going to have to beat you at chess to get it out of you?" she says with a smile, referencing the many times in the past she's managed to defeat me and get me to open up about an issue.

"I was just remembering something you said during the case."

She sighs, "I knew this would come up again. What do you want to know?"

I take a moment to have a drink from my coffee before speaking.

"So… you actually died?"

She nods, and her expression screams of regret and guilt, "So they tell me."

"What exactly did you experience?"

"I told you guys, just a feeling of cold and darkness," she says sadly.

"That's it?"

She shrugs and takes a long sip of her drink, which judging by its smell and appearance is green tea. Given the extent of her injuries at the hands of Ian Doyle, and her recent efforts to 'relax more', chances are high her choice in beverage is indeed green tea.

"Do you think the experience can change? Considering the difference in what we each saw, I mean."

She takes a moment to consider my question before answering, "I hope so. I like to think that I've done enough good in this life to warrant something a little less tinged in despair. I mean, I'm no saint, but I'm not exactly the picture of evil either."

"You really think our actions define our afterlife?"

"To be honest, I'm not sure. I've never really had an easy or clear relationship with religion or spirituality, but I like to think the good eventually balances out the bad."

"Even given what we see every single day on our job?"

"I don't know Spencer, it's not exactly sorted out entirely in my head," she snaps back, a bit of frustration seeping into her tone.

Our conversation is interrupted by one of the employees at the café, "Miss, here's the coffee you ordered."

She smiles and pushes the cup toward me with a knowing twinkle in her eye.

"Thank you," she says to the girl and hands her a $20 bill.

"What kind of coffee is this?" I ask, noting the exchange of money and feeling my eyes widen slightly.

She chuckles, "Just plain coffee. I asked them to delay making it and delivering it a bit to give you a chance to finish the one you had."

"Have," I correct.

"No, had," she insists. "Take a look in the cup, Dr. Reid. You finished it a few minutes ago."

"I did? How did you know I would finish it before we left?"

"Because you practically inhale coffee."

"That doesn't make any sense. If I-"

"Reid, just drink the coffee," she says with a shake of her head as she laughs.

I grab the cup and begin taking small sips as she drinks her own beverage.

"This is one expensive coffee."

She chuckles, "Worth every penny."

We settle into a comfortable silence until my curiosity gets the better of me and I ask, "What was it like waking up and learning you were dead?"

She doesn't answer immediately and instead lets out a shaky breath.

"Emily, I'm sorry. You don't have to answer if you don't want to," I rush to correct my mistake. It wasn't until after the words had escaped my mouth that I realized it was a bit too blunt a way of asking.

"No, I- I owe it to you. It's the least I can do after putting you through all of that," she says before pausing to consider her response. It's clear she's fighting her instincts to internalize her emotions in order to regain my trust, and her efforts do not go unnoticed by me.

"I'm not sure words quite capture it, but there was a certain level of… despair that took hold. I realized even before they told me I was being sent abroad that I would probably never see any of you ever again. And that you would spend the rest of your lives thinking I didn't trust you."

Her eyes are cast downward toward the nearly empty cup in her hands, but I can still see the turmoil and guilt swirling.

"All of the ramifications of my actions became crystal clear the moment they said that Emily Prentiss no longer existed. The nurses told me after that I screamed and fought against the agents that told me. They had to sedate me to make sure I didn't exacerbate my injuries."

"You didn't hear it from Hotch or JJ?" I asked. I always assumed one of them had been the one to tell her.

"No," she says with a shake of her head. "I never saw Hotch, and only saw JJ a handful of times in the beginning. I'm guessing after my initial reaction, the higher-ups thought it best for me to hear anything else from a familiar face. I was pretty out of it though, thanks to the many medications they had me on. I don't particularly remember most of my time in the hospital."

"It's not uncommon for victims of traumatic incidents resulting in major injury to repress their memory of the event or what immediately follows."

Her lack of response and strange expression confuse me and I shoot her a questioning glance.

"I just realized that that's how you guys had to look at me."

I frown further in confusion.

"As a victim," she clarifies.

I open my mouth to respond, but no words form. My eyes dart back and forth as my mind frantically races to determine the best response.

"It's okay, it makes sense. I just- I never considered it that way until now," she says with a smile that is meant to comfort me.

She finishes off the last of her green tea before pressing on, "Listen, Reid, if you're going to blame anyone for all of this, please, blame me. Don't take it out on JJ and Hotch, they just did what they had to. I never meant to bring any of you into my mess, but they got pulled in and did what they had to do. It's my fault Doyle came into the picture at all."

"Emily, it' not that simple. I cried and spilled my heart out to her, and she knew all along that you were alive. I trusted her, and she took that for granted."

"Reid, she couldn't say anything! If Doyle saw even a hint that I was alive he would have gone after you guys until I came out from hiding. He wouldn't have stopped at anything. Trust me, his hatred of me ran pretty deep."

I know what she's saying is true, but it still doesn't quite sink in entirely. She seems to sense my lack of acceptance and sighs deeply.

"Spence, I'm sorry that we had to lie to you, I really am. But like I told you, it was the only way. If you're going to hate someone, hate me, not her. She saved my life by doing what she did, even though it meant lying to you all."

I smile and take a large gulp of coffee before speaking again, "I know, it's just hard to swallow."

She nods and offers a small knowing smile in return.

"I know I didn't really say it before, but I am _really_ glad you're back, Emily."

She smiles genuinely, "I can't tell you how glad _I am_ to be back. I missed you guys every day. But you need to catch me up on everything new with you, Dr. Reid. I have almost 8 months to catch up on!"

And just like that I feel us settle into our old routine of coffee and conversation. It had taken me nearly a month to be able to agree to such an outing, but now that I'm here, I'm glad I did. I'd missed her, and having my de facto older sister back was nothing short of amazing.

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_I'd love to hear what you think and/or feel about the chapter!_


	19. How Much?

_I was absolutely __**shocked **__(my eyes actually widened) and __**delighted**__ (a grin did in fact spread across my face) to discover that this story had surpassed 100 reviews! Just... wow. I can't thank you all enough for your continued support, words of encouragement and feedback. To all those who have taken the time to leave a few (or more than a few!) words, you are all supremely awesome - particularly those that review every chapter!_

_I really enjoyed writing this chapter, and I hope you enjoy reading it! Happy reading! =)_

* * *

_"...behind all your stories is always your mother's story, because hers is where yours begin." – Mitch Albom, For One More Day_

"Hey mom?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

"Ugh. You just _have_ to make that joke every time, don't you? I'm trying to be serious and initiate a conversation with my own mother and I'm being mocked for my efforts. It's no wonder today's youth are accused of being inside our own heads all the time and prefer to escape into technology."

She raises her eyebrow, crosses her arms, and fixes me with a knowing stare in response.

"Okay, that might have been a _bit_ of a dramatization," I admit.

"You think?"

"Well at least I'm not cursing at you."

"As if you'd even try it. Your father would no doubt have you face down on the ground, and a boot on your back before I could even think of doing the same. And rest assured I could _definitely_ do the same."

"You know it, boy!" Dad calls from the other room.

I shake my head at his antics, "Too true. But you two are starting to get old. I might have the upper hand this time around."

She raises her eyebrow once more, "Did you just call your mother old?"

"Uhh, did I? I didn't hear anything like that."

"I thought not."

"Okay, okay. Can we talk though?"

Her eyes narrow slightly, "How much is it going to cost me?"

"Why do you assume it's going to cost money? Maybe I just wanted to sit down and have a chat with my lovely mother."

"Mmhmm. How much?"

I sigh dramatically in defeat – she can always sense bullshit a mile away, "Several thousand."

"WHAT!?" I hear Dad yell from the other room. "What did you do?!"

"You did that on purpose, didn't you? Just to get a rise out of him. That was unwise, Matty. Very, very unwise."

I can't help the chuckle that escapes my mouth, "I think he'll be okay with this expenditure."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, I dare say he might even approve of it."

She raises an eyebrow again and I just grin in response.

"Out with it already, Matthew!" she exclaims, gesturing her arms wildly to emphasize her point.

"I got in," I say simply, my tone barely above a whisper.

"You did?" her response sounds almost breathless.

"Yep. I got a decent scholarship too, but it's not going to cover the whole tuition and housing costs, so I need a couple grand to cover it," I say quickly, the words tumbling out of my mouth. I can feel the wide smile plastered across my face.

She throws her arms around me and squeezes tightly. The hug is tighter and lasts longer than your average everyday hug, but then again this isn't your average everyday hug. When she finally releases me, I see a wide grin on her face and nothing but pride and love in her eyes.

"I'll take that as a "Yes, Matty, your father and I would be happy to help fund your educational endeavors" yeah?" I say cheekily, partially breaking the moment's emotional depth.

"You are absolutely incorrigible, you know that?" she says with a laugh.

"Where do you think I get it from? I've heard the stories of one Miss Emily Prentiss as a teenager."

"You did not," she says as her face instantly shifts to a mix of worry and embarrassment.

"Oh, but I did. Grandma was more than happy to share," I say with a grin.

She glares at me for a moment before raising her gaze to the heavens and spouting off what I can only guess is a string of colourful curses in what I think is German.

"What exactly did she tell you?" she asks as her gaze drops from the ceiling to me once more.

"Oh just a few things here and there. Maybe a bit about a certain preference for excessive black makeup and nail polish during your teenaged years, a certain stash of cigarettes that was found in your room, and of course a bit about a few drunken phone calls she received while you were in college."

"Damn princess, you were quite the rebellious youngster, weren't you?" Dad calls from the other room.

"Oh shut it, you!" she calls in response. "As for you, young man. My immature antics are no indication of my expectations for your behaviour. Is that understood?"

"Bien sûr," I reply, slipping into French momentarily. "When I'm drunk and/or high I'll make sure to call Dad and not you."

"MATTHEW!"

"Sorry Mom. Couldn't resist," I say with a chuckle.

"Unbelievable. The woman spends my entire youth ignoring me, and is now spending my entire adulthood embarrassing me," she mutters under her breath.

"She didn't ignore you as much as you might think – how else would she have these stories?"

Her mouth opens and closes quickly.

"Don't say anything you're gonna regret, princess," I hear Dad call from the other room.

"If you're gonna listen in, why don't you just join us in here, old man," she fires back quickly.

"Who are you calling an old man, old lady?" he says as he enters the kitchen where we're now leaning against the counter. He presses a gentle kiss to her temple and moves to stand in front of me, with an expectant look.

I grin widely in response.

"You really got in?"

"Yep. What can I say? Your baby boy's a genius."

"More like a smart ass," I hear Mom mutter.

"You're lucky you got your mother's brains, kid."

"Yeah, I guess I am," I say with a smirk, which he sees and responds to by throwing an elbow to my ribs.

"Give me a freaking hug already," he says opening his arms. I oblige his request, wrapping my arms around him.

"We are so proud of you, kid. Do you hear me? So proud of you."

"Hey, I need to breathe here, otherwise all that studying will have been for nothing."

"Okay, okay, okay. Do you hear this Em? This is what I get for trying to show a little love," he says as he relinquishes his hold on me.

"Oh quit being dramatic, Dad."

He just laughs in response and gives Mom another kiss as he wraps his arms around her.

"Anyway, I gotta go, there's a ton of people I still have to tell.

"Just one more hug, Matty. Please?" Mom says in a quiet tone that makes her sound small. According to Dad, she's become more affectionate over the years. He says a switch really flipped for her just before she left the BAU, and affection stopped being a foreign concept to her. I wouldn't have known any different, she's always had a hug or kiss ready for me since I can remember.

She steps out of Dad's arms and I wrap my own arms around her tightly and close my eyes, letting the moment wash over me. She shifts slightly, presses a kiss to my cheek and whispers in my ear, "I love you, Matty."

I smile and hug her a little tighter as I respond, "I love you too, Mom."

She reluctantly lets go and I see a shimmer in her eyes. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen her cry, so to see that moisture in her eyes means this is big.

"Aw, Mom. Please don't cry."

"I'm not. I promise. I'm fine. Text your sister and tell her we're taking the two of you out for dinner. We've got to celebrate."

I grab my phone from my pocket and quickly tap out a text message to Tegan as I walk out of the kitchen. As I head toward my room and wait for a response, I overhear the conversation between my parents.

"Best decision we ever made," Mom says with pride clear in her voice.

"Second best," Dad amends. "He and his sister wouldn't have even been in the cards if you hadn't given me a chance."

I hear the air ring with her laughter, "Too right, Derek Morgan. Too right."

* * *

_This one's for all those Morgan-Prentiss shippers. Be excited, __**the**__ conversation you've been waiting for between those two has been written... I'm just tweaking it a bit._

_For those who don't speak French, "bien sûr" means "of course"._

_As always, I'd absolutely LOVE to hear your thoughts if you have the time..._


	20. Prelude

_Again, many thanks for the reviews. You really are just an awesome bunch of people!_

_So...here it is. __**The**__ conversation you've been waiting for._

_I admit I'm a bit nervous about posting this one since __**a lot**__ of you have been waiting around for it for many chapters. I hope it meets your expectations and the wait has been worth it. Happy reading! =) _

* * *

_"Platonic love is like an inactive volcano." – Andre Pevost_

"Prentiss," I hear her say after a few rings.

"Hey Emily, it's Derek. You got any plans tomorrow?"

"Uhh, not really, no. Why?"

"Well, since you don't have anything terribly exciting planned…"

"I'm listening…"

"I'm going to work a bit on one of my properties, and I was hoping you'd join me."

I can hear the smile in her voice as she responds, "You're trusting me with power tools and sledgehammers?"

"Good god no! I'm trusting you with a paint brush, and maybe a roller if you prove yourself capable."

"Painting? You want me to help you paint? Hang on, what do _I_ get out of this?"

"What, spending time with Derek Morgan isn't enough?"

"Don't push it buddy. If your ego gets any bigger, it'll crush you."

I chuckle lightly, "So you're in?"

She sighs dramatically in exasperation, "I suppose I can squeeze you in."

I smile widely, "Great. I'll pick you up at 8."

"In the morning?" she says in surprise.

"Gotta start early – there's lots to be done."

"You better bring me breakfast then," she bargains.

* * *

Taking a sip from my cup of coffee, I raise my hand and knock softly on her door. I hear a small groan immediately, followed by slowly shuffling feet, and finally several clicks as she unlocks the various latches on her door. She squints as she opens the door a crack, letting in a sliver of light that seems to blind her. It's clear she's not fully awake yet.

I wordlessly hold out the bag I'd brought with. She narrows her eyes and snatches it from my grasp before opening the door completely to let me in. I take just one step forward before she grabs my coffee from my grasp and shoots me a look that dares me to object to her action.

I smirk at her antics and shake my head with a chuckle as I close the door. I know better than to cross Emily Prentiss before she's had her morning coffee.

After a few minutes have passed, and she has consumed the remainder of my coffee as well as the the strawberry danish and French toast flavoured bagel I'd brought along for her, I decide to test the waters.

"I thought you gave up coffee."

She shrugs, "What can I say? I relapsed."

I chuckle lightly, "Can't say I'm surprised. You, give up coffee? That's about as likely as me finishing my reports on time, or you know, pigs flying. I'm surprised you lasted as long as you did."

She shoots me an unimpressed look and I throw my hands up in surrender, "I'm just saying."

I see the tiniest of smiles sneak onto her face, and I can't help but grin in response.

"You ready to go?" I ask. "There's no hurry though," I add quickly, not wanting to rush her.

"Yeah, we can go. But we're stopping for coffee on the way. My treat, since I seem to have deprived you of yours."

I smirk, "That's a sacrifice I was willing to make – I'm certainly not going to be the one getting between Emily Prentiss and her coffee, I value my life too much."

She fails to contain a smile, "A wise decision, Derek Morgan. Very wise."

* * *

"Really?! A pickup truck? Well aren't you just the vision of a stereotype!" she quips as she climbs into the passenger seat and buckles her seatbelt.

"Hey, it's not like I just drive it for fun, I actually use it for working on my properties!" I protest quickly in my own defense, shooting her an unimpressed look.

"Mmhmm. You're such a _boy_, with your fancy power tools and big truck. Compensating for something there, Morgan?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," I say with wagging eyebrows and a wink.

Her face flushes and her eyes widen before she quickly retorts, "In your dreams, buddy."

I smile and turn over the engine before pulling out onto the road and heading toward the local coffee shop. The witty banter only serves to increase the ache that settled into my heart two nights ago at JJ and Will's wedding when she told me she was leaving for London. I had sworn to myself I wouldn't ask her to stay, and I would let her do what she needed to do to be happy, she deserves that. But every interaction seems to be a point in favour of not letting her leave, and I feel my resolve slowly melting away.

* * *

With each of us armed with a fresh cup of coffee, we make our way over to my property, the truck weaving through the neighbourhood streets.

"This area is gorgeous," she comments as she stares out the window at the passing scenery.

"Yeah, I couldn't say no to the house when I drove through this neighbourhood. Even if I only spend a few hours every so often here, I can't help but fall in love with it every time I drive through it."

"I can see why. These trees are absolutely amazing, and this architecture is impressive."

"My mama never fails to let me know it's the perfect place to raise a family, what with the nearby schools, and safe streets."

I clamp my mouth shut quickly as I realize spouting off about families and schools probably isn't the best way to convince myself to let her go.

She smiles warmly, meeting my gaze briefly before she frowns in confusion, "Hang on, don't you usually flip these houses pretty quickly? How long have you had this one?"

"I've had it a while. I just can't seem to let it go. I always find a new project to start in it. I guess I'm just not ready to sell it yet."

"If you love it so much, why don't you move into it?" she asks as she tilts her head slightly.

I shrug, "I wouldn't do it justice. A family should live in it, not an aging bachelor."

"So keep it for when you do settle down."

I pause and consider her suggestion. It hadn't consciously occurred to me, but maybe that's what I'd been doing all along.

"Huh. Maybe. It's still got a lot of work left in it though."

"Is this it?" she asks as I pull into the driveway.

"Yep. This is it."

"Wow, Derek. This place is amazing," she says as her eyes take in the house's distinctly colonial exterior.

"You haven't seen the inside yet," I warn her.

She smiles, "I'm sure it's just as spectacular as the outside."

"Spectacular? Oh man, now I hope the work I've already done is up to your standards, princess."

Her smile widens at the use of my nickname for her, "Well if it is terrible inside, I'm sure my painting will go a long way to fixing it."

We unload my tools, various paint cans, and miscellaneous equipment from the truck and make our way to the front door. I fumble with my keys for a moment before unlocking the door and opening it, gesturing for her to enter first.

"You want the grand tour?" I ask after we drop the tools and equipment on the floor.

She nods quickly, "Yes, please."

"Sorry about the mess and all the sheets. I'm storing a few pieces of furniture here and I didn't want to damage them while I worked."

"Understandable."

I lead the way toward the room to the left of the foyer, "This is the study."

She nods as her eyes scan the room, and her fingers gently trace the frame of the windows that open onto the front porch. Her eyes are drawn to the large shelves lining the wall.

"I thought it was the kind of room that deserved a dedicated space for books, so I put in those shelves."

She smiles, her inner nerd apparently pleased with this decision. Her gaze shifts slowly from the front windows to the doors across the foyer.

I answer her unspoken question, "Those are the front closet and powder room."

"Ah, okay."

We continue toward the back of the house, stopping at the base of the stairs to the second floor.

"This is the great room, kind of a den and family room all rolled into one I guess. Those doors at the back open onto the deck," I say, pointing to the room at the back of the house, beyond the staircase.

"The fireplace is beautiful," she says as her eyes land on the natural stone.

"Yeah, it took a while to restore it, but it was well worth it. It turned out great."

She nods in response, her eyes scanning the room once more.

"Over there is the formal dining room," I say as I gesture to the area just to our right. "And of course this is the kitchen. There's a pantry just through that doorway there."

"It's nice that the kitchen opens onto the dining room. Most of the houses I grew up in had dining rooms that were completely segregated from the rest of the house. It always made me feel very confined and isolated at meals."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. In the evenings you get a nice view of the sun setting too. Really makes it cozy and kind of paints itself as the ending of a modern day fairy tale, you know?"

_'Really Derek, a modern day fairy tale? That's what you go with?' _my inner voice scolds. _That's how you're going to convince yourself to let her go?_

She offers a small smile in response before taking a peek through the windows that overlook the backyard, "The deck looks a bit worn, but it's a good size."

"Yeah, it's next on my list of things to fix," I say with a smile, glad we've moved past my shoving my foot in my mouth. "Good news is that it's mostly just finishing the wood, structurally speaking it's sound."

"This house has good bones," she remarks.

I smile at her interest in the house, "Yeah, it really does. Maybe that's why I haven't gotten rid of it yet."

She chuckles, "Maybe."

"Let's head upstairs, you're gonna love the master bath."

"Lead the way," she says with a quick gesture.

As we head upstairs, she peppers me with questions about the different features of the house.

"Is the hardwood all throughout?"

"Yep."

"Original wood?"

"Yep, I did have to replace a small bit of it in a couple places though."

"How old are the windows?"

"Just installed them a few months ago."

"How many bedrooms?"

"Four. And before you ask, it's two and half baths. Ah, here we are. That's the laundry room there."

"On the second floor? That's uncommon for a house like this."

"Yeah, definitely something that caught my eye when I was looking at this place initially. It was in shambles when I bought the place though. I had to put new flooring in there, and patch a ton of holes in the walls."

"Looks pretty good to me," she says as she pokes her head into the room.

"Over in the corner there is a bedroom – it's got a great view out the front of the house. This back corner room is the master bedroom. It's got a huge walk-in-closet, a reading nook, and an amazing view out over the green space that the house backs onto."

"A reading nook?"

"That's what you focus on out of all of that?"

"When are you going to remember that I'm a nerd?!" she quips back quickly.

"How could I forget?" I say with a smile. "And this is the master bath that I just finished up a few weeks ago."

"Ooh! Is that a soaker tub?"

"I knew you'd like that, princess," I say with a smirk, remembering a certain date with a hot tub that I hadn't been invited to.

"It's huge!"

"That's what they all say," I say quickly, earning a quick reddening of her cheeks for my efforts. "The other two bedrooms are in the front corner of the house over there."

After taking a peek inside the remaining bedrooms and shared bathroom, she gives me her analysis, "This house is absolutely gorgeous. You're lucky to have found it. I wouldn't sell it if I were you. Definitely hang onto this one."

"It's too big for me, princess. What am I going to do with all those bedrooms? Clooney and I only take up two at most. And we both know he wouldn't even bother with the stairs, he'd probably sleep on a couch downstairs."

She chuckles, "I'm not saying move in here now, I'm saying hang onto it for when you settle down and start a family."

"Maybe. I'm not sure yet."

She shakes her head, "No, you have to keep it, Derek. This place is way too special to sell. I can see you living here."

"Haha, okay, okay. I'll hold off on selling it, I promise."

She smiles triumphantly, "Good."

* * *

By dinnertime we'd managed to finish up the entire upper and lower floors' 2 primer coats, and had decided to call it a day.

"What are you feeling for dinner?" she asks as she puts the lid back onto the can of paint.

"How do you feel about Thai? There's a great little place not too far from here, but unfortunately they don't deliver."

"Thai sounds good," she says, flashing me a smile.

"Good. I'll go pick it up. Kick back and relax, princess. There's beer in the fridge, and a TV is hooked up in the great room if you want."

"Sounds good. Don't be too long, I'm starved."

"I won't, I promise. Half an hour, tops."

"Go already!"

"Okay, okay."

* * *

"Derek!"

I stop my current task of retrieving the Thai food from the passenger seat and turn my head toward the sound of my name. I smile warmly as I see one of my neighbours walking toward me.

"Mrs. Lochley, hello. How are you?"

"Excellent, dear. Yourself?"

"Just fine, thank you."

"Working on the house again?"

I nod, "Yeah, almost getting to the finishing touches part of the process."

Her expression falls slightly, "Does that mean you'll be selling it soon?"

"Not right away. I have a few more things to finish up."

"You should really think about keeping that place, it's a great house."

"So everyone keeps telling me," I say with a small smile. "But I should be getting back inside. My friend is waiting on this food for dinner."

"Ah, so that's who's playing the piano. I was wondering who was in there."

"Piano? What do you mean?"

"Open your ears, young man. Don't you hear that? Whoever it is is quite talented."

I pause for a moment and focus on the sounds coming from the house. I'm surprised to notice that Mrs. Lochley is right – a beautiful melody is making its way to our ears from the house. I had forgotten about the old piano that had come with the house when I bought it.

"You go on ahead dear, and tell whoever it is playing, thank you. It's been a long time since I've heard music performed that well. And don't forget, you promised me a tour of the house when you finish up."

I nod solemnly, "Of course. You have a good night, Mrs. Lochley."

"You too, Derek," she says with a wave as she heads back toward her own house.

My focus shifts back to the piano's gentle notes that drift to my ears. Mrs. Lochley wasn't exaggerating – the melody is the mark of an accomplished pianist.

I quietly open the front door, and place the bags holding our lunch on the ground in the foyer. I walk toward the great room and lean on a freshly painted (but now dry) wall. I watch as her fingers move swiftly across the keys, and her entire body moves along with the melody. Her eyes are closed, not in concentration, but to allow her to immerse herself fully in the music. Her expression is thoughtful, and I realize that this is the most relaxed I've seen her since before the whole Doyle debacle.

Not wanting to disturb her, I move quietly to the lounge chair covered by a large sheet and sit down. My eyes remain fixed on her as the piece comes to an end and she finishes with a small flourish. Her eyes open slowly and she takes a deep breath as she lifts her hands from the keys.

A few seconds pass before she directs a question toward me without turning, "How long have you been sitting there?"

"A couple of minutes. You've been holding out on us, princess. That's pretty impressive."

She shrugs, "I took lessons growing up. It was pretty much the only thing my mother approved of me doing during my childhood."

"What were you playing just now?"

"Bach's Prelude in C major."

"It was beautiful."

"Thank you," she says quietly, and I'm somewhat shocked by her shy tone.

"Will you play me something else?"

"I didn't take you for a fan of the piano."

"Princess, anyone would be a fan of the piano after hearing such beautiful music, especially performed by such a beautiful woman."

Her cheeks tinge red again and she turns away quickly, moving to pull down the cover over the keys. I jump to my feet and move across the room swiftly, putting my hands on hers, stopping her motion.

"Play me something," I breathe, my mouth just inches from her ear.

A beat of silence passes before she replies quietly, "What do you want to hear?"

"Anything," I tell her as I release my hold on her hands and sit down beside her on the bench.

Her gaze lowers and focuses on the keys as she seems to try and pull a particular piece from memory. She blinks several times slowly before taking a deep breath and poising her fingers above the keys. She closes her eyes and lowers her hands, beginning the piece she'd been trying to recall.

The notes fill my ears and I'm once again struck by the beauty of the melody. It is haunting, but hopeful, and I can't help but think of how much it reminds me of her – haunted by her past, but hopeful for the future. With every note I can feel the stress rolling off of her, a temporary peace taking its place.

As the minutes pass, I'm struck by how beautiful she looks, her fingers dancing over the keys, and her expression so peaceful. The room is filled with the setting sun's light, tinged with red and gold rays. I close my eyes briefly, letting the music's notes sink in and inhaling her scent deeply. I open my eyes once more and let my eyes take in every inch of her, committing her to memory, just in case she might disappear again.

When the piece comes to an end and she opens her eyes, I realize I'm staring but can't seem to look away. In that moment I come to a decision - regulations and being the nice guy be damned, I can't let her leave again.

She turns to face me, her eyes wide and her expression shy. I open my mouth to speak, but the words I want to say don't come, and instead I find myself asking her what piece she played.

"Part of Chopin's Nocturne," she says softly, her gaze dropping to her hands that now sit in her lap.

My mind races, trying to convince my mouth to speak the two words that I desperately want to say. 'Don't go' is such an easy phrase to utter, and yet my mouth stays clamped shut. Instead, I lift my hand and gently tilt her chin up until her eyes, filled with questions, worry, and carefully guarded hope, lock with mine. With the notes of the piece still echoing softly in my mind, I close the small gap between us and gently press my lips to hers.

It seems that both an eternity and a fraction of just a moment have passed before I slowly pull away. Things seem to move in slow motion as I open my eyes just in time to see her eyes open. They are dark with emotion, and her expression is a mixture of surprise and confusion. She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply, her expression switching to one I've never seen on her.

Her eyes open again after what seems like hours pass, and she just stares at me. Suddenly, her hand is on my cheek, and she's kissing me. When we break apart, the need to breathe becoming overwhelming, I finally find I'm able to speak.

"Stay," I say, my voice so quiet I'm not sure she heard me. I can only hope she understands what I'm asking.

She presses her lips together in a smile as she nods, and I see small tears glisten in the corners of her dark eyes.

"Okay," she whispers.

* * *

_Well... there you have it. I'd __**love**__ to hear what you think..._


	21. I Got It

_Thank you for your kind words and feedback on the last chapter. I'm happy the Morgan-Prentiss conversation was well received._

_Took another stab at writing Penelope... Happy reading! =)_

* * *

_"The friendship that can cease has never been real." – St. Jerome_

"Sergio. Hey, Sergio. SERGIO! Oh kitten, what do you _think_ you're doing?! Give that back! Consuelo is NOT a toy!"

I desperately reach out, trying to snatch the "prey" that he'd "caught" during his usual afternoon shenanigans, but he's far too quick for me. Freaking ninja cat.

"Sergio! BRING THAT BACK!" I yell as he darts across the kitchen and under the table, his prey locked tightly in his mouth.

I hear a knock at the door and yell out, "JUST A SECOND!"

He'd taken advantage of my moment of distraction and had deposited his catch of the day somewhere in my apartment, and was now walking slowly toward me doing his best to appear completely innocent. I narrow my eyes and glare at him, "This is _so_ not over, kitty."

He yawns and stretches before jumping up onto the couch and curling up for his afternoon siesta in his usual spot, apparently choosing not to acknowledge my words.

I scoff at his actions and turn my attention to the door. I fiddle with the lock – it tends to jam from time to time – and swing open the door. I can't help the small gasp that sounds as my eyes take in my visitor. Even though she's been back for a few days now, I'm still not used to seeing Emily Prentiss around, and you know, alive. I smile widely and engulf her in a tight bear hug.

"OH! My raven-haired crime-fighter, I've missed you!"

I expect to hear a chuckle or a scoff, but she responds with a tired voice, "I missed you too Garcia."

I somewhat reluctantly pull away and gesture for her to enter. "C'mon sweet cheeks, in you come. Don't mind the mess, Sergio and I were just having a discussion," I say as I shoot another glare toward the black cat now completely stretched out on the top of my couch.

She tilts her head slightly and her brow furrows, "Discussion?"

"Yes. He has apparently decided to wage war on my vast collection of stuffed animals. The carnage this week has been particularly distressing – fluff and fur everywhere. My bedroom looked like a crime scene when I got home last night. As if I don't see enough of this kind of stuff at work."

She turns and takes in his relaxed form, and then turns back to me with an eyebrow raised, her expression full of skepticism.

"Don't let his relaxed nature fool you. Beneath that black, furry, and innocent-seeming exterior is a predator with über stealthy ninja tendencies. He's already taken out a significant chunk of my bear collection and is starting in on the mice now," I say seriously.

This time she does chuckle lightly and then turns her attention to Sergio, murmuring something in Spanish. At her words he jumps up from his designated siesta location and darts across the room before leaping into her arms. I hear a throaty purr fill the apartment as she rubs behind his ears and down his back. She puts him down after a moment turns her attention back to me.

I shake my head, "Unbelievable. You're like the cat whisperer or something."

She just shrugs in response. My gaze remains on her, taking in every feature. I still can't quite believe she's alive, and here. She shifts nervously under my gaze, and I tear my concentration away from cataloguing her every feature to memory.

"Can I offer you something? Coffee? Or maybe tea? Hell, it's not that early - alcohol?"

"I'm fine, thanks PG," she says with a small smile and a shake of the head.

I narrow my eyes briefly and disappear into the kitchen to retrieve some of my baked goods. I return and place a plate with a slice of cake on it in front of her, shooting her a look of "go-ahead-and-try-to-defy-me".

She closes her eyes and exhales a very small laugh as she shakes her head before taking a very small bite.

"So, what can I do for you, E?"

There is a small moment of silence before she responds. "Well, I…" she trails off.

"You're making the rounds, trying to sort out where you stand with people?" I guess, saving her from what, for her, would undoubtedly be an uncomfortable explanation.

She looks relieved that she didn't have to verbalize it, "Yeah."

"Let me save you some time then, Em. We're okay, so long as you promise me to never, and I mean _never_ pull a stunt like that again," I say seriously.

She nods solemnly, "I won't, I promise."

"No more Irish mobsters lurking about in your somehow still mysterious past that we have to worry about?"

Even though the question is largely in jest, we both grasp the truth that sits beneath it. We both know I'm asking if we can expect any more major surprises. We both know I'm asking if she's keeping anything else from us. She answers right away with a shake of her head, her expression still solemn and her eyes serious.

"Good. But I think I'll do a little sleuthing of my own to verify that."

I hadn't meant it that way, but her expression gives away the effect of my words, even if she tried to mask it.

"Oh god. Em, I didn't mean- I-I-" I fumble with my words, trying to pull back the undeserved shot I'd just taken at her. I sigh in frustration with myself, "You know how I am."

She smiles, but the emotion conveyed is far from happiness. I frown and feel guilt permeate my heart and soul.

"I'm so sorry, Emily. I honestly didn't mean it like that. You know I love you, right?"

She nods with a sad smile, shifting her gaze toward the cake I'd set in front of her. Her lack of verbalization worries me, and I pray she isn't shutting down and throwing up her defensive walls.

I sigh loudly and rub my eyes in frustration with myself. She'd come here to apologize and try to mend the friendship she thought she'd broken beyond repair, and I'd done nothing but shove my foot into my mouth and stifle her efforts.

We settle into silence, having pretty much covered the point of her visit. She focuses intently on picking apart the slice of cake I'd set in front of her, and my gaze is fixed on her as I scrutinize her. While it is definitely Emily sitting in front of me, I'm struck by how frail and small she looks. It occurs to me that I'd been so happy to have her back that I hadn't stopped to realize the state of the Emily Prentiss I got back.

Her face is almost ghostly pale, dark rings and bags sit beneath her eyes, standing out despite the makeup covering them, and those dark brown orbs have a heaviness and haunted look about them – guilt and apprehension swirling around frantically. She looks exhausted, and for the first time I realize how skinny she is. I suddenly hope she finishes the slice of cake, and lets me cook her dinner. For at least a week, if not a month.

"Oh, hey, did you get a new cell yet? I need to be in contact with all my crime-fighters at all times," I ask, breaking the silence.

"Yeah, I did. Hang on a sec, I haven't memorized it yet," she says, pulling out a new phone from her purse. She makes a few selections and scrolls a bit before reciting her new number to me. I punch it into my phone, and save the updated entry. I'd never mustered the courage to delete her contact entry, instead finding a strange sort of comfort in her name appearing in my contact list.

"Excellent." A small chuckle escapes my mouth, "I swear you get a new number every year; my file on your contact info and phone listings is huge compared to everyone else's."

She shrugs, "I didn't realize I had so many."

"Neither did I until Hotch asked me to get a hold of you when you… you know, went all noble and self-sacrificial on us."

A pained expression briefly flashes across her face, and I curse myself for bringing it up. Mouth, meet my other foot.

"I got your voicemail," she blurts out quickly, breaking the silence that had taken hold once more, and surprising the heck out of me.

It takes me a moment to realize what voicemail she's talking about. I feel my eyes widen and my mouth open in shock once I realize, "You did?"

She nods slowly, "It really was like a light in the dark for me. It gave me the strength I needed to take him on."

"That wasn't my intention," I reply. "I was hoping to convince you to give up that idea and come home to us and let us help you fight the bad guy."

"I know, but it made me realize that I had to find a way to survive. Up until that point I'd rationalized that in all likelihood my fate had been sealed already."

At my sharp intake of breath at her admission she backtracks quickly, "I mean, not that I went in with the intention of dying or anything, but it just seemed like a very real possibility, you know?"

I offer a half smile in response.

"It reminded me of what I had here at home; what was worth hanging on for. It got me through it."

I offer a genuine smile this time, "Good. I'm glad you let that sink into that overly stubborn but brilliant mind of yours. But you can bet your shaking-while-you're-salsa-dancing ass that if you ever pull a stunt like that again I'll do my thing and make sure you can't run off anywhere."

She chuckles and I see a smile spread across her face. I grin in reply, not able to hold back my laughter either.

"Thank you," she says. "For, you know, being you, and making me smile, even despite it all."

Her words cause a memory to flash across my mind's eye…

* * *

_"…and I look everywhere for her, and when I can't find her I start to panic. And I panic because I know what's waiting out there for her. I know what the world can do to a girl who only sees beauty in it. Like you."_

_My eyes widen ever so slightly and I feel my lips part at her comparison. She smiles, maybe in reply to my reaction, or maybe to make her point._

_"Somehow you- you always make me smile. And I don't think I've ever thanked you for that."_

_My eyes focus on her in concentration and a bit of worry – her tone, and the admission itself is out of character for her. Before I have a chance to say anything, Seaver interrupts us to deliver Hotch's request for Emily's presence, leaving me to shrug off the interaction and get back into work mode._

* * *

Now that I think about it, there was something in her eyes that really should have set off alarm bells in my head. And even if that look hadn't, the manner in which she delivered that explanation should have – it felt far more like a goodbye than it should have. How or why I didn't pick up on that fact until now, when she's back and sitting in front of me, isn't something I can really explain.

I realize I haven't responded to her as she glances somewhat nervously at me before averting her eyes quickly. I reach over and place my hand over hers, "Of course, Em. Thank you for coming back to us."

She shoots me a small smile once more, and I offer a similarly sad smile in return. She pulls her free hand from her lap and breaks off a piece of the cake, bringing it to her mouth.

"This is delicious, by the way. Almost better than all those croissants and pastries I've been eating for the last 7 months."

"It better be! I had to fight Sergio for the ingredients. I lost a few good eggs in the battle, but ultimately won the war."

"You know, I never had any of these problems when he lived with me."

"Well, he might be enacting some revenge for the 'loving' that I tried to force on him…"

She cringes and sucks in a breath, "Oh boy."

"But despite our dark and difficult relationship, I love that little kitten to bits, even if he did kidnap and hide Consuelo."

"Consuelo?"

"The source of those pink and yellow tufts of fur around his mouth."

Her eyebrows raise as she tries to contain her laughter, but ultimately fails. Despite Consuelo's likely terrible fate, I can't help but feel another part of my heart begin to heal as her laughter rings through the air. She'd be okay, eventually. And knowing that means that I'll be okay too, eventually.

That is, unless the ninja cat takes out Massimo, my prized collectible gnome. If that happens, there's no telling what my rage and fury will lead to.

* * *

_If you have the time, I'd love to hear your thoughts, as well as any suggestions for conversations..._


	22. Adoration & Possibility

_Thanks again to all who read and reviewed last chapter, your words motivate me to keep writing, and I love reading your thoughts on the conversations. Also, a big thanks to those who left/sent me suggestions for future conversations - I managed to write out a few of them!_

_In my ongoing efforts to have a relative balance of conversation partners, we're delving back into the world of JJ (and of course Henry makes an appearance!) I had a ton of fun writing this chapter, and I hope it elicits a chuckle or two from you._

_Happy reading =)_

* * *

_"Our babies will be smart and beautiful." –Leonard Hofstadter, Big Bang Theory_

"Okay, spill. How'd you do it?" I ask, not quite believing what she'd just told me.

She shrugs, "No clue. I told him the time and he raced upstairs to get ready. I checked up on him a couple minutes later and he was already in bed, pajamas on, teeth brushed and story picked out. I read a few pages and he was out like a light."

"Unbelievable. He's been giving me and Will a hell of a time at bedtime for months."

"Well there was that bit of cold medication that I slipped into his after-dinner snack…"

My eyes widen, "You didn't."

She laughs, "I'm kidding. What can I say? The kid was tired. We had a very eventful day."

I shake my head and chuckle, "Thanks again for this Em. My to-do list was just ridiculously long, and with Will in New Orleans and Henry's never-ending energy, there was no way any of it was going to get done today."

"JJ, I don't mind. He's a delight."

"For you, apparently," I mutter, somewhat jealous that my son behaves better for her than me, his own mother.

She smirks in response, trying to hold in a laugh but losing the battle. She eventually gives up trying to hold it in and laughs heartily. I reluctantly join in, her laugh too infectious to ignore. We settle into a comfortable silence, enjoying the moment for what it is – blissfully normal. No unsubs to profile, no international terrorists searching high and low for her, no victims to interview, no media to wrangle. It's a small moment of completely boring normalcy, but it's worth more to us than anyone could ever know.

"So what did you two get up to today?" I ask, genuinely curious as to what activities would tire out Henry, who usually has energy to spare.

"Well, we finally watched The Wizard of Oz, went to the park and played a very intense game of tag, followed by a pretty deep discussion about life."

"My son, the philosopher. You bring out the nerd in him, Em."

"There are worse things I could do… Don't forget that I was a rather rebellious youngster."

"Emily Prentiss, a wild child? I don't believe it. Aside from some yearbook photo Garcia keeps alluding to, I've got no proof of that."

She bites her lip as if in debate with herself over whether to share details or not. With an exhale, she seems to have decided.

"We moved around a lot when I was a kid, because of my mom's job. She was always busy with dinners, meetings and events. She made sure to give me the best money could offer, but her schedule didn't leave a lot of time for her daughter."

"I can't even imagine not making time for Henry."

"You and my mother are very different people, and it was a different time. Careers and kids didn't mix as well as they do now. Anyway, with no real friends thanks to moving around so much, and no siblings, I craved my mother's attention. I would do just about anything to get her to notice me."

"I take it that strategy didn't pay off?"

"Well, at first it did. I pissed her off royally every chance I could get and she'd yell at me and argue with me, so long as there weren't guests around. It's sad, but those moments were the only moments I was sure that she knew I existed."

I open my mouth to comfort her, but I realize she isn't finished.

"After a while though, the yelling and arguing stopped; she stopped acknowledging me altogether. That's when I got into some pretty bad stuff."

I raise my eyebrows in silent question in response, my eyes portraying the comfort I desperately want to give her.

"Sex, drugs, cheap thrills. I was pretty much the poster child of maladjustment."

"How old were you then?"

She sighs. "15 or so."

I can't help the expression of shock that appears on my face. Perfectly poised, classy, professional and compassionate Emily Prentiss was the kind of kid my mother warned me about.

"What changed you?"

She opens her mouth to respond, but is interrupted by a loud crack of thunder. I brace myself for the yell that will no doubt follow – my son is far from fond of thunder storms. Not 5 seconds later, I hear the wail of Henry's cries and quick footsteps coming down the stairs. He jumps into my arms and buries his face into my shirt, his tears dampening my shirt.

"Shhh, it's okay Henry. It's just thunder."

"I don't like it," he cries, his words almost drowned out by the rain pounding against the windows and the wind whipping branches against the house.

5 minutes later, Henry is no more comfortable with the storm, and my shirt hasn't had a chance to dry yet with his constant stream of tears.

"How about some warm milk, Henry? Maybe that will help calm you down."

He doesn't object, and I take that as an affirmative.

"I'll get it Jayje," Emily says as she jumps up from her seat.

"No, no. Here, you take him, I'll get it. Maybe he'll calm down for you."

Placing him into Emily's open arms, I'm not surprised to find him grasping her shirt tightly and burying his face into the crook of her neck, a fresh wave of whimpering sounding from his mouth. She begins whispering to him in rapid French, and he pulls his head up to regard her with a confused look.

"Bien. Now that I have your attention, how about we calm down a little? Oui? Just breathe Henry, slowly. In and out, with me. Good."

I shake my head. Of course she'd be able to calm him down. Even as a newborn and as a toddler she'd had an oddly calming effect on him. I walk into the kitchen to warm some milk, my mind thrown into a memory.

* * *

_"I can't believe it's already been a whole month. It feels like just yesterday I was holding him for the first time," I say as Henry begins squirming._

_"I know what you mean, time is flying by where this little crime fighter is concerned. There are not enough hours in the day to shop for him!"_

_"Garcia! He doesn't need anything else. You've already showered him with gifts," I protest._

_"None of which are good enough for this little guy. Speaking of, I have a shopping date with my Chocolate Adonis, so I must be off. If you need anything at all, you know how to reach me."_

_She steps next to me, curls her finger and bumps it with Henry's fist in what I can only imagine is a rudimentary version of 'props'. With one last "tootles!" Garcia departs, leaving the house to just the two of us._

_Henry continues his squirming, and I begin to gently rock him. I hear soft knocks at the front door and, placing Henry in his carrier, I walk slowly to answer it, simultaneously happy whoever it is decided to knock and not ring the doorbell, and upset that my time with him is being interrupted._

_I'm somewhat shocked by her presence for some reason._

_"Jayje, hey I'm sorry to just drop by like this. I hope I didn't wake the little guy…"_

_"No, he's awake. You just missed Garcia, actually. Come on in."_

_"Oh no, it's okay. I just wanted to drop something off. I evidently procrastinated a bit too long on buying a present for the whole 'congratulations! it's a boy' thing."_

_"Em, you didn't have to-"_

_"Nonsense. It's not every day you have a kid," she says, and I see an expression of what I think is regret flash across her face._

_"At least do me a favour and watch the little guy for a couple minutes? I haven't had the chance to change yet today."_

_She nods, "Sure. No problem. Take your time."_

_I smile gratefully, happy to have the chance to change into some fresh clothes._

_"Actually, do you have anywhere to be?"_

_She shakes her head, "Not just yet, no. Why?"_

_I grin apologetically, hoping I'm not overstepping, "Well I'd love to jump into the shower…"_

_"Say no more, Jayje. Go ahead. Little Henry and I will get acquainted."_

_"Perfect, thanks Em. I owe you one."_

* * *

_One very refreshing and relaxing shower later, I throw on some clean clothes and make my way downstairs. Half way down the stairs I hear the high-pitched wail of Henry that I've come to classify as 'full-fledged fit'. I grimace and begin forming an apology in my head for Emily. As I round the corner to the living room where I'd left the two of them, I realize the crying has stopped. Emily is holding Henry in her arms, their gazes locked as she rocks him gently._

_"That- That's amazing. How did you do that?" I ask, eyes wide in surprise._

_She turns to face me, her expression mirroring mine, "I dunno."_

_After another minute or so of gentle rocking, Henry's eyes close and he settles into a sound sleep. She puts him into his carrier and tucks his blanket around him before turning to face me._

_"Before I forget, here," she says, pulling an envelope from her purse and handing it to me._

_I take it and absently open it, my mind still focused on how Henry settled down so quickly. When my eyes shift to the contents of the envelope my eyes widen at the sight of the paperwork denoting significant money put aside for Henry._

_"Em, this is- It's too much."_

_She waves off my efforts, "I don't have any nieces or nephews to spoil, so… Please, just let me."_

_"Em, you can't possibly be able to- This is a lot of mon-"_

_"Jayje. Please, don't worry about it."_

_"But we don't make that much," the words tumble out of my mouth quickly, my brain still not processing the reality._

_"Let's just say being an Ambassador's daughter comes with some financial security, so please don't worry about it."_

_"I- I don't know what to say."_

_She just shrugs, as if to say 'no big deal'_

_"Thank you. Really, thank you," I say and wrap my arms around her in a tight hug._

_"Don't thank me yet, he might put it toward buying a Harley," she says with a chuckle._

* * *

Carefully carrying the mug back into the room, I hear Emily speaking softly to Henry, explaining the science behind thunder and lightning. His brow furrows in concentration, but the explanation seems to pacify him somewhat. His eyes swing toward me as I sit down beside them, placing the mug on the table.

"Here Henry, have some warm milk, then I'll tuck you back in upstairs."

He reluctantly pulls away from Emily and slides forward to grab the mug of warm milk. A few minutes later, having finished his milk and stayed relatively calm through some thunder, I can see his eyes begin to droop.

"Okay little man, time for bed, let's go," I say.

"Auntie Emmy!" he says as he throws himself into her arms once more.

"Henry, you've got to go to bed now," my tone a little more harsh than I intended.

He turns his head shyly toward me, an almost guilty expression on his face, "Can Auntie Emmy tuck me in?"

I shake my head and sigh, my raised eyebrows asking the silent question of my friend. She nods slowly.

"Okay, but give me a kiss first."

He jumps out of her embrace and gives me a quick hug and a kiss, "I love you, mommy."

"I love you, Henry."

He jumps up once more and grabs Emily's outstretched hand.

"C'mon handsome, let's get you tucked into bed," she says with a warm smile.

As they head upstairs, their hands tightly grasped together, I go into the kitchen and set about making us some tea. The storm hasn't let up any, and driving in the near torrential rain is probably not a good idea, so I figure we'll be up for a while. A few minutes later I hear her footsteps on the stairs and soon after see her appear in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Is he out?"

She nods, "Yeah, poor little guy is completely tuckered out."

"Here," I say, placing a mug of tea in front of her. "I figured you're stuck here until the rain lets up a bit, so we may as well have some tea."

She smiles gratefully, "Sounds good to me. Thanks."

We take our beverages and sit back on the couch.

"How come you don't have any kids?"

She looks surprised at my question but recovers quickly, "I told you already. When you and Will got together, you snagged the last viable donor."

"Mmhmm. You sure it isn't because you haven't been looking for one?"

She shrugs, "The timing's never been quite right."

"Em…" I say with a raised eyebrow.

"What? It hasn't. I went from maladjusted teenager to surprisingly studious college student and then jumped straight into law enforcement. Not long after all of that I was deep into CIA stuff, so it's kind of been on the back burner since."

"Okay. But I'm just saying, I can see it. You'd make a great mom."

"You think?"

"Henry adores you, so does Jack. You connect with the kids we see at work. It fits, Em."

Her expression turns thoughtful and I decide to seize the moment and push the agenda.

"Plus, your children would be gorgeous. Something to be said for good genes on both sides…"

She frowns, "Both sides?"

"You're beautiful, Morgan has that sexy appeal. Your children will be stunning."

"Hang on. Morgan? Wait. What are you trying to say?"

I smirk, "Em, please. All that flirting between you two cannot possibly just be platonic."

"Did Garcia put you up to this?"

I chuckle, "Nope. This is just me."

She narrows her eyes and shakes her head, "JJ. It's not going to happen. We're partners, that's all!"

I shake my head, those two have been dancing around each other for years, and if not for bad luck they'd have no luck at all when it comes to timing.

"JJ!"

"Okay, okay. But admit it - your children would be gorgeous."

She rolls her eyes, "Yeah, I guess they will be."

I raise an eyebrow and it takes less than a second for her to realize her mistake.

"Would be. They _would_ be," she rushes to correct herself, her skin tingeing red with embarrassment.

I grin widely, my mission clearly accomplished, and several questions finally definitively answered.

"Oh, quit looking at me like that. You know what? I think the rain's finally let up a bit. I think I'll be heading home now."

I laugh at her discomfort and her not at all hidden efforts to escape the discussion.

"Okay Emily. You do that," I say with a smile. "Drive carefully. Henry would never forgive me if he couldn't see his favourite aunt ever again."

"I'm his favourite?"

"Don't act so surprised, Em. He absolutely adores you. Just… don't tell Garcia. She's liable to go on another fairy godmother shopping spree to make up some ground."

She chuckles along with me, "She totally would too. Alright, I'm off."

"Bye Em. Remember, beautiful babies with dark brown eyes and caramel coloured skin and stubbornness to spare."

"I'm leaving now," she says as she walks briskly toward the door, trying to hide her face, which I'm guessing would betray her true thoughts on the matter.

Just before she shuts the front door behind her, I manage to say one last thing that will, in all likelihood, drive her crazy for days.

"He'd make a great dad!"

* * *

_If you're so inclined, I'd love to hear your feedback._

_I'm also open to suggestions for future conversations..._


	23. You Gave Me A Lifetime

_You readers and reviewers are all darlings. That is all._

_Another new perspective for this one, tagged to the heart-wrenching season 7 finale, "Run"._

_Happy reading! =)_

* * *

_"Heroism is endurance for one moment more." – George F. Kennan_

_My mind turns to Henry, stuck in the house with that god-awful woman doing who knows what to him. My only hope is that JJ and her team find them before it's too late._

_"I found Will."_

_A mixture of elation and fear course through me as I realize someone's found me._

_"Negative. He's got… six transmitters on him . This whole place is gonna blow. … No, you gotta get everyone out. Is the bomb squad here yet? ... Ugh. Copy," Emily says, clearly relaying information to her team as she steps in front of me._

_"Emily, you gotta get Henry – they're at the house," I say, panic clearly evident in my tone._

_Her eyes quickly scan the chains that surround my body, ignoring my previous plea._

_"Just get everybody outta here," I say in an effort to save her. She's already cheated death once, and I can't help but think she won't be so lucky a second time._

_"I'm not gonna leave you, just give me a minute," she says, exasperation in her tone._

_"That's about all you got," I reply, my feeble attempt at humour in a dire situation. She ignores my comment and I can see her mind frantically working out how to disarm it._

_"Okay, everything they did and said was about them," she says. I'm not sure if she's speaking to me or herself, but I respond anyway, hoping it will help._

_"Narcissists."_

_"Romantics. They met in 2008,"she says as she punches in the corresponding numbers on the keypad._

_The noise from the keypad that follows indicates an incorrect code and I can't help feeling a sliver of relief that there are two more opportunities for entry, rather than an explosion._

_"Woah, what are you doing?" I ask as the gravity of the situation once again becomes apparent. There's no need for both of us to die. "Seriously Emily, go."_

_She makes a noise in response as her eyes flit back and forth, her mind still churning to work out the psychology behind the choice in code._

_"Go," I say again, hoping she will listen._

_"Okay, hold on!" she says with more force. I get the feeling she is talking more to herself than to me by this point. "Chad. 2 4 2 3. Ugh, damnit!"_

_Despite having only one chance left, and the odds of an explosion taking both our lives increasing, she continues her thought process, "Okay, these are valentines for her, so a four-letter word. Uh, love, life, uh, soul."_

_A thought occurs to me, "Izzy. Her name is Izzy."_

_She looks at me with eyes slightly wide, and seems to agree with my idea as she types in the corresponding code, saying the letters out loud as she does so._

_As the screen turns green, indicating a successful entry, I hear a sound of relief escape her lips. Unfortunately not even a second later I hear her exclaim, "Oh god!" as she sees the second timer expose with just 30 seconds on it._

_I watch as she pulls her ear piece from her ear in frustration, eyes never leaving the exposed wires._

_"The story-telling's in the details; these wires mean something."_

_"Like what?!" I ask, panic creeping into my tone once more._

_"The colours of the flag of Chad: red, yellow, and blue. Only one is different from the U.S. flag: yellow," she says quickly._

_"What d'you think?" I ask quickly._

_She doesn't respond verbally, but instead shakes her head minutely and clips the yellow wire. I feel my muscles tense for the impending reaction, and see her do the same._

_But no explosion erupts, and the timer is stopped at just 1 second remaining. I let go of the breath I hadn't realized I was holding and relax my muscles, letting out sounds of relief. She exhales heavily and falls back until she's sitting._

_"How'd you do that?" I wonder._

_"I didn't overthink it," I hear her say, and I realize I voiced my question aloud._

_I can't help but laugh lightly at her response, and she joins in my still somewhat nervous laughter._

* * *

"Sorry to interrupt, but I was hoping I could steal this beauty for a dance," I say as I tap Dave on the shoulder.

He smiles, "Find me again later, bella. There's a bottle of _someone's_ favourite wine that's begging to be opened."

She chuckles lightly, "David Rossi, you know me too well."

I grab her hand gently and wind my other arm around her lower back as we begin to dance to the soft blues music still playing.

"I bet you're happy to finally have convinced her to marry you," she quips as her gaze is drawn to JJ, who is being held by Spencer as they sway to the music.

"'Bout damn time. I thought she'd never say yes."

She chuckles, "She is a stubborn woman."

"Look who's talking," I drawl in response, a smirk forming as the words escape.

She drops her head onto my shoulder in realization, embarrassment, or perhaps avoidance.

"Hey, I'm not complaining. If you weren't so damn stubborn, I wouldn't be here talkin' to ya, let alone married to one of the most amazing women I've ever met."

"I wasn't going to just leave you there. You're family, Will."

I smile at her words. Coming from Emily Prentiss, they mean a whole lot.

"You gave me a lifetime to spend with the woman I love and my son. Thank you doesn't cover it, but it's all I got," I say sincerely. If not for her brave actions, I wouldn't be standing here, a newly married man. The gravity of that realization is far from lost upon me.

"Will, don't worry about it. Just keep her and that little boy happy and it will have been more than worth it."

"Now that's something I can agree to."

We continue dancing as the song shifts to one of an even slower tempo, and our movements slow in response.

"Hey, Will?" she asks, leaning back slightly to allow our eyes to meet.

"Yeah, Emily?"

"Thank you," she says quietly.

I frown slightly in confusion, "For what?"

"For not holding it against JJ after I came back and the truth was revealed."

I pull her close again and shake my head – it would be just like her to weave an apology into a thank you.

"Don't worry about it. Just keep yourself happy and it will have been more than worth it," I reply with a small smile, echoing her previous words.

She smiles and opens her mouth to respond, but is interrupted by Henry.

"Aunt Emmmmmmmmyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!" he says as he runs toward us.

She lets go of my hand and opens her arms up to catch his speeding form.

"Bonjour, mon ami! Tu es trѐs beau ce soir, comme un petit prince!" she says in rapid French.

Henry's eyes widen as he no doubt tries to recall the answer to the question he'd asked me earlier. He turns to face Emily and scrunches his face in concentration, "Vous….Vous êtes belle."

Her smile is wide and her eyes seem to twinkle at his efforts to speak French, "Merci, monsieur!"

He pushes his face into her neck and wraps his arms around her neck tightly. I chuckle at his antics – he's always had a soft spot for Emily, even when he was a baby. Whenever she was in the room his gaze was drawn to her, and he'd stare into her eyes intently. All it took to calm him down from a fit was one look from her, and just one minute in her arms would put him right to sleep when he was fussy.

"Sorry Will, I appear to have a new dance partner," she says as her eyes twinkle with happiness.

"S'alright. I should find JJ," I say as I press a kiss to her cheek and ruffle Henry's already unruly hair.

"Don't worry, I've got him," she says.

I nod in response – there is no one other than JJ I'd trust more to care for Henry – and I turn to find my new bride. As I reach the tables, I turn back briefly to watch as Emily twirls Henry around, prompting his laughter to fill the dance floor. I feel an arm slip around my waist and a familiar scent permeates the air as I realize my bride has found me.

"Don't ever let her run off again," I say seriously. That woman is far too important to us, and to Henry, to disappear on us.

"Never," JJ agrees.

* * *

_For those of you who aren't familiar with French:_

_"Bonjour, mon ami! Tu es trѐs beau ce soir, comme un petit prince!" = "Hello, my friend! You're very handsome tonight, like a little prince!"_

_"Vous êtes belle." = "You are beautiful."_

_Thoughts? Opinions? Requests? Let me know if you have the time!_


	24. Honouring an Agreement

_You readers and reviewers are awesome. Your continuing support is __**much**__ appreciated._

_So... to all you fans of Hotch... sorry I've been ignoring him! I find him __**really**__ difficult to wrap my head around as a character - he's a very complex fellow! Nevertheless, here's a look into his take on the "I'm having a bad day" from "Unknown Subject" in season 7. It's also references the wonderfully creepy "Outfoxed"._

_Happy reading =)_

* * *

_"But I feel that old chill down in my bones,  
Guess the storm's gonna hit any place I call home.  
There's no use in seeking higher ground,  
'Cause with this kind of rain, you always get found."  
– Kate York, Rains Here Too_

There is usually a fraction of time between when we complete a case and when we land at home (and have to begin the daunting task of completing all the requisite paperwork) when I am at peace. My thoughts turn to Jack, and more often than not, if it isn't too late, I'll give him a call. These moments between the job's ugly reality and the bureaucratic interpretation of the job are what keep me grounded as a human being, and as a person.

But sometimes dynamics don't allow for that relaxation. Sometimes, those in-between moments are instead filled with concern and worry over the team. Given what we face every single day, it's hard not to be concerned for them. A certain level of worry for each other is normal for each of us – it's what makes us such a close-knit group. But lately, with everything that's gone on surrounding Prentiss and her past, my worry level for her specifically has increased significantly.

She's been back a while now, and has done everything she possibly can to return things to how they were. I worry that she's trying too hard, using it to avoid dealing with everything that came up as a result of Doyle's reemergence in her life. The report from the Bureau's therapist confirms my suspicions – she used her knowledge of psychology and profiling skills to lie her way through her evaluation. To be fair, it's not the lying I really object to – after all I wasn't overly forthcoming in my own evaluations after Foyet – it's the avoidance of dealing with the issue head on.

We made a deal before this case began, that she'd tell me when she's having a bad day. She agreed readily, but her face was unreadable, no doubt the result of growing up a diplomat's daughter. I hoped she would take it seriously, because I knew there would come a point where she wouldn't be able to shove it all down and box it up in her mind. But I never thought that point would come so quickly after making our deal.

I board the jet an hour early, a stack of files and papers to be completed in my arms. My intent is to finish them before everyone gets here, so that precious in-between time can be peaceful and give me time to speak with Jack. But as I lift my head to negotiate the corner, I see one seat already has an occupant.

I admit, my first reaction is one of slight frustration – the entire premise of me finishing my paperwork before everyone arrives has now been rendered moot. But once seated, I lift my gaze and study her face, which is a battleground between composure and breaking down. I feel my face shift to reflect concern and worry. Her smile is small and sad as she nods her head gently, acknowledging my presence, but not daring to speak a word. Tears well in the corners of her eyes, and I see her swallow in an attempt to stay in control.

I can tell she despises the words coming out of her mouth, but she fights her gut reaction to internalize it and instead opens her mouth to speak as a defeated expression settles onto her face.

"I'm having a bad day."

"The statement?" I ask gently, already knowing it was what set her spiraling downward.

She nods, swallowing largely once more to contain the emotion threatening to spill out the cracks of her defensive walls.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask carefully – I can't afford to push her too much, it would only serve to set her back further.

She gives a non-committal shrug in reply.

"I'm here if you do want to. The rest of the team shouldn't be here for another hour or so."

She considers my words for a moment before responding, "He's everywhere."

I don't' respond, sensing there's more she needs to say.

"It wasn't like this the last time," she says.

"After the initial mission, you mean?"

She nods, "I never really forgot about him and what I did, but I could compartmentalize it. This time I can't."

"Why do you think that is?"

I watch as she squeezes her eyes shut to stop the flow of tears. Her efforts are in vain as tears quickly make trails down her cheeks. I consider offering her my handkerchief, but ultimately decide it might spook her.

"I don't know," she says, a hint of despair in her voice. "I don't know why I can't deal with this."

"I never said you can't deal with it, no one did. I think that you're comparing the two experiences as though they are the same, and that's making it difficult for you to make sense of."

Her eyes briefly find mine once more before she closes them again. I take her silence as an opportunity to explain further.

"As much as the two experiences are similar, they aren't the same. They were for different reasons, with different outcomes, and in different contexts. It's like apples and oranges."

She looks up at me with eyes pleading for answers, "So what do I do? How do I fix this feeling?"

I shrug, "Hard to say, but I'd recommend taking some time to deal with it head on. You can't ignore and run from it forever. I know you'll hate this, but after Foyet I saw a therapist that really helped me get my head back on straight. Maybe it's something you should consider."

I'm not surprised when she doesn't respond and instead focuses on wiping away the evidence of her tears and composing herself. Evidently we've reached her threshold for discussion on the topic.

While she tries to painstakingly focus her mind onto another subject, my own mind continues to ponder her predicament. Our conversation sparks a memory of a previous case.

* * *

_She sits on the chair, looking very much like she wants to escape her own skin. She rubs her legs and arms as though her skin crawls with the remnants of their interaction. Her head shakes and her body shudders with loathing at her recent actions. Given her actions, I can't say I entirely blame her. It's one area I have come to realize she is quite adept at, and represents just one of the skills she brings to this team. But at what cost?_

_"I encouraged him," she says with a loud exhale, her eyes widening at her own admission._

_She crosses her arms, almost as though to protect herself from the memories of it, "I flirted with him."_

_She breathes out slowly and shakes her head as a look of disgust fills her face, "I… made it personal. Getting intimate with a killer is… so different."_

_"It's what we do," I reply in a weak effort to comfort her._

_Her hand brushes her hair from her face and she nods in agreement when she meets my gaze._

_"Yeah, but…" she trails off, dropping her gaze and letting silence fill the room for a moment before meeting my gaze once more. "There's no fixing how I feel right now, is there?"_

_"No," I say simply. "But it helped the case, and you did what you had to."_

* * *

There's no doubt in my mind that she must have thought of Doyle during every second of that interview, and I'm reminded once more of how strong a person she really is. And I'm reminded that for all we know about her, CIA past included, there are still countless layers to her that have yet to be revealed.

The fact that she's sitting in front of me probably showing more genuine emotion than she has in years speaks volumes to me. But questions also rise. Why did she show that emotion that day? Why did she let me see it? Was it in an effort to play the never-worked-for-the-CIA Emily character? Or was it real emotion based on her experiences with Doyle? Given her prowess at portraying exactly what she needs people to see, it could be either.

"How did you deal with that interview with Karl Arnold?" I ask, partially out of curiosity and partially to give her a chance to change the topic somewhat.

She frowns in concentration at my abrupt question, but offers a small smile as she answers, "Alcohol. Lots, and lots of alcohol."

* * *

_As per always, I'd love to hear your thoughts/impressions/critiques, if you have the time to do so. And of course I also welcome suggestions for future conversations!_


	25. Had a Feeling

_Readers & reviewers... you're all awesome! And **many** thanks for your feedback!_

_Annber03 - I'm not sure if this is what you had in mind with your suggestion, but it's where the muse went with it.  
__Another dive into Reid's mind, based in season 8, and containing specific references to the season 2 episodes "Distress" and "Jones"._

_And a gentle reminder (please don't hate me for this!): _not_ every chapter will be (or can be!) M/P. I'm trying to be relatively balanced with the characters I choose for conversations._

_And finally, as always, happy reading! =)_

* * *

_"It is hard to understand addiction unless you have experienced it." – Ken Hensley_

I sit cross-legged on the bathroom floor, my fingers twitching and my gaze completely focused on the objects in front of me. I'd retrieved them from their hiding place an hour ago, but I hadn't found the nerve to do anything more with them since then. It's been a few days since I lost her, and the urge to fight the creeping despair and emotional pain with the numbness it would provide grows stronger every minute. I know with just a few familiar movements I could be in a blissfully unaware state. But I also know that any shred of normalcy I have left will be thrown away with those movements. The battle within my mind of the pros and cons is seemingly never-ending, and I wish I could settle on an answer.

I think I hear a voice in the distance and then metal scraping against metal, but quickly disregard it as my focus swings back to the issue at hand. My mind flashes back to all those years ago, when it was forced upon me, and this constant battle was dropped into my life. Before then, this would never have even been a consideration for me. Now it's that nagging thought that is always there at the back of my mind.

"REID."

Her voice startles me out of my thoughts and my head turns quickly, my eyes taking in the opened door, and the figure standing in front of me, looking thoroughly concerned.

"How'd you get in here?" I ask.

She closes the door behind her and walks quickly toward me, dropping her purse on the couch. She stops just a few steps away from me.

"Reid, what are you doing?" she asks, her gaze zeroing in on the objects that lay in front of me.

"Did you just break into my apartment?"

"Reid, talk to me," she pleads, her voice cracking.

She takes another step forward and I find my hands shooting out in front of me to grab the objects. Her eyes widen and she immediately raises her hands in the air as if to show her innocence and ceases her forward movement.

"Spencer, talk to me. Please."

I meet her gaze and in her eyes I see a pain that seems to be deeper than just concern for a friend. There's something more there, but I'm not quite sure what. It's just a flash, but it's a different kind of pain than I've seen from her in the past.

"What's there to say?"

"Anything. Just talk to me." Her breathing is far from even, and her expression portrays almost panic. I've never seen her this rattled before. Not when Doyle was after, not when Cyrus was threatening us, not after she was almost blown up twice within the span of a day.

"Go away."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Just go, please. Leave me alone."

"No," she says firmly, despite her shaky voice.

In that moment I'm suddenly overcome with a wave of both anger and fear. I scream, "GET OUT!" and slam the bathroom door shut, making sure to lock it. I hear her turn the door knob frantically, trying to open the door as she shouts my name, and demands I open the door. My fingers, still grasping the tools for my release tightly, begin to loosen and I begin the familiar movements that will save me from this seemingly endless pain.

"SPENCER, OPEN THE DOOR!"

I ignore her pleas and continue with my actions. I hear the door rattle against the frame as she desperately tries to open it. I'm mere seconds away from release when the door is kicked open, and she grabs the needle and vial of Dilaudid away from me.

"Spencer, you don't want to do this."

"That's not for you to decide," I snap back forcefully, the anger still bubbling.

Her expression is pained as she steps past me to begin disposing of the Dilaudid. My eyes widen as I realize her intended actions, and I scramble toward her, my hands reaching out to pull her away from her task as I yell, "Don't!"

She easily shrugs out of my hold and continues her actions. I try to pull her away once more, this time with more force, and I succeed. I hear a loud thud, and a small gasp of pain as her body connects with the bathroom wall and pipes behind me, but I don't turn around, instead reaching toward the vial. Suddenly I'm moving backwards, her hands wound around my arms, pulling me out of the bathroom as I kick and thrash to escape her hold.

"Spencer, I promise you, you don't want to do this," she says in a surprisingly small, broken voice.

She spins me around, and releases her hold on me, pushing me forward roughly toward the front door. I turn around quickly, stepping back toward the bathroom.

"Don't," she says, shooting one hand out to stop me and a forceful determination entering her eyes. "I'm going to get rid of it, and you're going to let me."

"Why?"

"Because I know this isn't what you want to do."

"Isn't it?" I say, as I take another step forward.

Her eyes seem to harden, and her entire body tenses, ready to react to my movements. She shakes her head, "No, it isn't."

"Emily," I growl. "Get out of my way. You don't know anything about what I want."

"I'm not going anywhere, so you may as well just let me do it."

"Why?" I spit back, unsure of where my anger is coming from now.

She exhales loudly before she answers. "Because I'm a former CIA agent," she says. The significance of that statement is not lost on me – she probably knows dozens of ways to incapacitate me.

We stare at each other, almost in a battle of wills, for several moments before I see the pain and worry flash in her eyes once more. In that moment my anger dissipates completely, and I slump my shoulders in embarrassment and defeat. I collapse onto my couch as I watch her disappear into the bathroom. A minute later she returns, her expression still pained and her eyes screaming apology. My mind has realized my actions and the guilt begins weighing on me heavily, "Emily, I'm so sor-"

"Spencer, it's okay," she interrupts me quickly, dropping onto the couch beside me. Her voice is gentle and full of compassion, despite what I'd just done to her.

All of a sudden I'm bombarded with memories of our interactions in the days and weeks following my ordeal with Tobias Hankel.

* * *

_"What the hell was that in there?"_

_"What?" I ask, unsure of what she's referring to._

_"He may even be in this room as we speak? We have nothing to support that."_

_I stifle a scoff. "We're investigating a serial homicide, should I have pretended there was no danger?"_

_"We just left that woman potentially afraid of every man who walks into this shelter," she says, frustration seeping into her tone._

_"Again, until we find this unsub, how is that a bad thing?"_

_"What is the matter with you?"_

_I hold back the expression of frustration that is sitting just beneath the surface._

_"What- What d'you mean what's the matter with me?"_

_"I've never seen you act like this."_

_The dam breaks._

_"Oh really? Oh, in the- in the months that you've known me, you've never seen me act this way? Hey, no offence Emily, but you don't really know what you're talkin' about, do ya?"_

* * *

_"I'll map out the area and see if I can find any places the victims would have visited in the neighbourhood," I say._

_"Good, maybe we can find a connection between them. I'll help you with that."_

_"I can handle it."_

_"I wasn't suggesting that you couldn't," she says carefully._

_"Isn't that what 'I'll help you with it' means?" I snap back before Hotch silences me._

* * *

_"I was just thinking of this old friend of mine, from Las Vegas – Ethan. Pretty sure he lives in New Orleans now."_

_"Really? Gonna give him a call?" Morgan asks._

_"We grew up competing against each other in absolutely everything – spelling bees, sciences fairs. We also both had our hearts set on joining the Bureau, but… first day at Quantico he backed out," I explain, but avoid answering his question._

_"He probably just couldn't take the heat," Prentiss says with a smile._

_"That's not really for us to decide, is it?" I shoot back defensively._

_"Right. My bad," she says sadly._

* * *

My level of guilt rises as I realize I never really apologized for how I acted and treated her during that time. As the newest member of the team, and the person who I had the weakest relationship with, I chose her to channel the majority of my frustration and anger onto. I realize now that she was only looking out for me, making sure I didn't do irreparable damage to my career or myself. "It's not okay. I don't know why I-"

She shakes her head, interrupting me once more, "Don't worry about it. Now come on, let's talk about this."

"Emily, I'm so, so sorry," I insist, my voice portraying how guilty and broken I feel. She has to understand. _Has to._

She looks at me sadly, breathing out a loud exhale, and briefly closing her eyes. "It's okay," she says softly, putting her hand over mine and squeezing it in reassurance.

"No, I'm sorry for what I did and what I said today. But… I'm so sorry for how I treated you after Tobias Hankel. I was horrible to you. You didn't deserve that."

"Hey, Spencer. It's okay. You were hurting, and struggling, and fighting demons. I get that. I know you didn't really mean it."

"But I still said it-"

"Spencer, let it go. I certainly have."

"Even so, I tried to hurt you just now."

"No, you tried to get your drugs. There was no deliberate intent to hurt _me_. I was just in the way."

"Still."

She takes another deep breath and exhales it loudly. "I forgive you."

"Wh-what?"

"I forgive you. You're off the hook. Don't feel guilty about it."

"You- You do? Just like that?"

She nods.

"But why?"

"Because I know how much it can hurt, and I know the feeling of being willing to do absolutely anything to make that pain go away."

That heaviness and pain in her eyes that I wasn't able to identify before is back once more and I'm once again struck by how rattled she is. Then it dawns on me - the only time she's been close to being this rattled was during the case with Matthew Benton, her childhood friend. It's possible that she dealt with his drug addiction as a teenager, which would explain her strong reaction to my actions.

"Your friend Matthew?" I ask.

She nods, "Yeah. But… also me."

My eyes widen and my mouth drops in shock at her words. She was far from the sort of person I'd associate with being a drug addict.

"You mean you were… You did…"

"Yep."

"How bad was it?"

"It?"

"Your addiction to..." I trail off, realizing I don't have the information to finish the sentence.

"Cocaine," she finishes for me. "And…I got through it."

"What made you start?"

"I was 15 and not dealing well with a lot of stuff I had going on then."

"What kind of stuff?" I ask.

She bites her lip and picks at her fingernails, both telltale signs of stress and uncertainty – which seems strange considering what she'd just revealed to me.

"My dad had left a while before, after a painfully long and messy attempt at a happy marriage with my mother. By that point, for all intents and purposes, he had already moved on, only dropping in every once in a while to provoke my mother. Plus, I had some issues with Matthew and Johnny, I was stuck in a foreign country, and I was lonely and craving attention and comfort."

"Your dad left you and your mom?" I ask, shocked that I'd never known that about her. Suddenly all her compassion about my angst revolving around my father's leaving made sense.

She nods, "He was a successful business man with political ambitions. If my mother, who would have been a valuable political asset to him wasn't worth his time, then his troubled daughter definitely wasn't."

"Do you still talk to him?"

She shakes her head and answers in a very matter of fact manner, "A better question would be if I ever talked to him. I have very few memories of him, and the ones I have aren't the most pleasant."

I raise my eyebrows in silent question.

"Oh no, nothing like that," she says quickly. "Just a lot of arguing, and always being brushed aside for something more important."

I nod once, "Oh."

"Anyway, I got into a lot of bad stuff to try and sort it all out and deal with it. Sex, drugs, and many other stupid things that could very well have killed me. Looking back, I'm actually fairly surprised I made it past 18."

"You and Matthew started at the same time?"

"More or less, but for very different and yet similar reasons. He started because he began to question the very things that were guiding and shaping him and his life. That questioning led to a life spent searching for peace. I started because I felt incredibly guilty and wasn't able to deal with everything, and I wanted to be able to escape that."

"Guilty over what?"

"That's a story for another time, handsome," she says with a sad smile, giving my hand another squeeze.

I nod in reply, knowing that she's already revealed more than is usual for her and pushing the issue would only result in her shutting down.

"Have you been outside?"

Her question catches me off guard. "What?"

"Outside. You know, trees, sunshine, wind, other human beings."

I shake my head, "Not really, no."

"Well come on then. You and I are going to play some chess in the park."

"I don't really feel like-"

"Reid. Get your board, and grab your coat. We're going. Fresh air and sunshine will do you a world of good, I promise," she says, leaving no room for discussion.

* * *

An hour later we're deep into our third game of chess, and she has been proven right – the sunshine and fresh air have done wonders for me. Already I'm feeling much less despondent, and slightly more at peace. Words have been few and far between for both of us, complete focus on that game taking hold instead of our usual conversation back and forth between moves. I'm surprised by how much I miss the conversation and decide to bring up a topic that I'd been wondering about to fill the void.

"Does it get easier? Dealing with it, I mean," I ask as I contemplate potential moves.

She cocks her head, "The addiction, or the loss of a loved one?"

I shrug and move a pawn. "Both."

She pauses to consider what move to make. "It never goes away, but yes it does get easier. On both accounts."

"Did you ever slip up?"

"Came close a couple of times after some of the tough cases we dealt with. And I came _very_ close after things with Doyle. That mission drained me of everything. When I finally got out and moved back to the States, all I could think about was how I could escape the emotional burnout and turmoil with one quick fix. It took everything in me to not go back to it, even though it had been well over a decade since I'd touched the stuff."

"How did you fight it?"

"Declan," she says simply. "I couldn't justify giving into my own selfish needs when he still needed protecting."

"What about when you were…" I trail off, trying to find the right word. I finally settle on, "away."

Her gaze lowers and she seems to scrutinize the board. It is almost a minute before she responds.

"Not while I was away. But… there was a night after I came back that I came about as close as you did today."

My eyes widen. "What stopped you?"

"You guys."

"Us?"

She nods. "Yeah. I didn't want to throw away the friendships, or at least the potential of the friendships, so I bargained with myself that I'd at least wait until I knew I'd lost all of you guys totally before I gave in."

My face pales as I realize I was the main reason she almost gave in. She seems to realize my train of thought and quickly begins to babble in an effort to backtrack.

"But, I mean, it might not have gone that way. Maybe I'm stronger than I give myself credit for. Maybe I would've been able to resist. The point is, there are low points, and it never 100% goes away, but you find ways of fighting it and dealing with it."

My gaze shifts to the board, my guilt still eating at me.

"I want you to promise me something, Spencer."

At her request my eyes jump up from the board to meet her gaze, and my eyebrows raise in question.

"Promise me that if you ever get those feelings or urges again that you'll call someone. It doesn't have to be me, but you need to talk to _someone_. You don't have to deal with it all alone. You have people in your corner to help you through this. "

"Okay."

"You promise?"

I nod. "Yeah," I say, my answer coming at a volume barely louder than a whisper.

We settle back into the game, remaining silent for several minutes until I grin widely, moving my rook to trap her king, "Checkmate."

She laughs, "I still won 2 out of 3."

"Aw, c'mon. Give me some credit."

"Fine. Well played, handsome. Come on, let me take you home."

I pack up the chess board into my bag, and rise from my seat. A question pops into my head suddenly, "How come you dropped by today, anyway?"

She shrugs, "I just had a feeling I should."

"Don't you usually teach Applied Criminology right now?"

She smiles, "Like I said, I had a feeling."

* * *

_This was a pretty heavy (and emotionally draining!) chapter to write, and if you have the time, I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. __And of course if you have any suggestions for future conversations, my ears are wide open!_


	26. Reminisce

_Kudos to all who read and reviewed the last chapter, your feedback is always encouraging, and your suggestions have all been put onto my list of "to-write"._

_Another new perspective for this one. It's tagged to the stunning "Demonology" episode. Happy reading =)_

* * *

_"The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones worth suffering for." – Bob Marley_

My gaze lingers on the faded blue walls of the room as I wait for the doctor to return. My thoughts begin to wander away from the apparent blueness of the wall, and onto more dangerous subject matter, so I close my eyes and shake my head, willing my focus to remain on the wall. Another few minutes pass before the doctor returns. He warns me that while he's able to release me, any type of stress could do significant damage and should thus be avoided. With a quick promise to seek relaxation and get plenty of rest for the next few days, I sign my discharge papers and call a cab to pick me up.

The cab pulls up, and I get in, still not yet sure of my destination.

"Where to?" the driver asks as he makes eye contact with me in the rear-view mirror.

Things seem to move in slow motion as I blink and drop my gaze, wondering just where I should go. My eyes are drawn to the falling snow illuminated by the cab's headlights, and I'm transfixed. I watch individual flakes slowly dance their way through the dark sky and land on the windshield, only to be quickly erased away by the wipers.

"Sir?" the driver prompts.

"A hotel, please."

He frowns, "Which one?"

"Doesn't matter. Any one will do," I say, not really desiring to make any decisions at all tonight.

He shoots me a strange look, but shrugs and pulls away from the hospital's entrance. I watch as the world seems to speed by in a blur and creep along at a snail's pace, all at the same at the same time. My eyes see the houses, buildings, trees and people that we pass, but my mind is seemingly switched off, not processing any of the sensory information.

I'm not sure how much time passes before I feel a slight lurch as the cab comes to a stop outside a hotel I realize is not terribly far from my house.

I pay the driver and thank him with a quick wave as he drives off. I check into a room, and fall back heavily on the soft mattress of the room's bed. I close my eyes, but only see the terror that must have filled his eyes, and no doubt filled my own as well, when faced with death. My mind wanders onto the night's events and I feel my heart begin to race once more, the fear coursing quickly through my veins. Taking a few deep, calming breaths, I compose myself and feel my heart return to a normal pace. I know I should sleep, but finding such a state of peace seems an elusive feat at best.

I roll over and grab the phone on the bedside table, dialing the number I'd called more times in the past couple days than in the past couple decades. It rings a few times before I hear her answer.

"Prentiss," she answers, probably out of habit. Though she tries to hide it, I can hear the weariness in her voice. The past few days have been difficult for her, and I feel a wave of guilt at my decision to call her.

"Emily, hey. It's John."

"Johnny, how are you? I tried to call you, but I realized you probably didn't have your phone with you," she says quickly. The speed at which the words tumble out of her mouth instantly remind me of the 15-year old shy and yearning-to-fit-in Emily Prentiss I met in Italy all those years ago.

"Yeah, I left it in my house."

"You're still at the hospital then?"

"No, I checked into a hotel. Didn't really feel like going back there tonight."

My steady speech and ability to string together coherent thoughts are surprising to me after running on auto-pilot for the majority of the night.

"Of course. But you're okay?" Her tone is full of worry, and I feel more guilt, this time for not letting her know sooner that I'm okay. Even if it had really been years since we talked, there was still a friendship, or at least a connection of some kind between us.

"Yeah, they discharged me. Just had to promise to take it easy and get some rest."

"And you are, right?"

"I'm trying to."

There's a moment of silence as both of us try to navigate these uncharted waters.

"Where are you staying?" she asks, breaking the silence.

I briefly consider not telling her and sparing her the emotional turmoil that will no doubt arise, but ultimately my desire to see her again wins out. With a sigh I give her my hotel and room number. With a promise to be here in 40 minutes or so, she ends the call, and I hang up the phone. I roll over onto my back once more, and close my eyes for a moment to rest.

An hour or so later, soft knocks on the door wake me from my admittedly fitful sleep. I blink away the lingering sleep and rise to answer the door. I pull open the door and take in her appearance – her cheeks and nose are bright red, and her jacket is soaked with partially melted snow.

"Did you walk here?!" I ask in surprise.

She nods, "I was outside already and the hotel isn't far from where I was, so I figured I'd save myself the cab fare."

"Emily, it's freezing out."

She shrugs, "I didn't really notice, to be honest."

"Can I make you a coffee? Maybe warm you up a bit?"

"Sure."

At that point I realize she's still standing in the hallway, and I open the door wider to let her in. Her eyes lock with mine and I see the same scared and vulnerable look that was there when we were 15, having a very difficult conversation that was far beyond our years. It was a conversation and responsibility that I ran from before she could even finish speaking. She deserved better from me, but instead I was a coward and disappeared.

We sit in silence as the coffee brews, its scent filling the room. Her gaze is fixed on the wall, and mine is fixed on her as I realize how much we both have changed since we were teenagers. When the coffee finally finishes, I pour two cups and hand one to her, which she accepts with a smile.

"Thank you," she says softly.

Silence takes over once more as we both fail to find the elusive words that once always came so easily between us.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, Emily," I finally say, repeating my apology from earlier that night, hoping she will at least acknowledge it.

She closes her eyes and exhales, "Johnny, that was a long time ago. It's in the past."

"I know, but I should have been there for you. I know Matthew was, but it should have been me. I'm the one who…" I trail off, unsure of how to finish the sentence.

"Who what? Got me into that situation? You didn't pressure me into anything. I was 15 and desperate to be accepted, I went along with it," she says as her eyes seem to soften with each word. "We were just kids, John."

"Doesn't excuse my actions. You deserved better."

She sighs heavily, "It's okay. It's in the past. Don't worry about it."

Her eyes seem to betray her words as they flash pain and regret and maybe anger, but I don't pursue it. Instead, we each focus our attention onto our cups of coffee, and let their warmth soak into our bodies and our souls.

"Do you remember that party we got into a few weeks before all of…_ that_?" she asks with a smile.

I frown in concentration, "What party?"

"The football one, with all the crazy Lazio fans."

"And then the Roma fans crashed it and the cops ended up breaking it up?" I ask in clarification.

"Yeah, and we tried to explain, in our terrible and very broken Italian that we weren't fans of either team," she says with a chuckle.

I smile, "If I remember correctly, Matthew and I had to drag you away from one of the police officers before you got us all arrested for assault."

"He had it coming, he was being a little too grabby for my liking," she says defiantly, even after all these years.

"So there's an okay level of grabby?" I ask with a smirk.

Her eyes widen, "No, I didn't mean- Of course not!"

I laugh at her efforts to backtrack, and she shoots me a patented Emily Prentiss glare before smacking me on the arm. It feels almost like we're kids again, joking around and not having to dwell on the sudden but admittedly not entirely surprising death of the third member of our group.

"That was one hell of a night," I say.

"You're telling me. My mother was all over my ass the next day."

"What? No way."

She nods, "_Some people_ were a little too loud when dropping me off."

"At least I walked you to the door?" I supply with a hopeful grin.

"Johnny, you walked _into_ the door. And Matthew managed to almost knock over a statue."

"Well, what did you expect? We were 15 and few drinks over the edge. Besides, I seem to recall you weren't exactly a ninja yourself, Miss Prentiss."

She raises an eyebrow before grinning with a shake of her head, "I suppose you did save me from being arrested…"

I grin in response, "Yes, we did indeed."

"But can you imagine what my mother would have done if I'd been arrested? God, her face would have been priceless."

"Yeah. That twitch in her eye would have started for sure – like that time you and I got caught smoking in the bathroom."

She laughs loudly, and I join in as we reminisce about our times together. But when the laughs fade, we settle into a silence once more, and with our coffees long finished, our time together dwindles. It feels like an inevitable goodbye looms large.

"I should go," she says, confirming what I suspected.

"Thank you, Emily. You saved my life tonight," I say, meeting her gaze.

"Of course, John."

"He talked about you, you know? When he was sober, I mean."

She closes her eyes once more in an effort to compose herself.

"He always said he should have stayed in touch with you. Kept promising that he'd clean up and we'd all go for drinks, just like the old times."

"I hope he's found the peace he was looking for," she says after a beat of silence.

I nod solemnly, "Me too."

I open my arms as we both stand and I pull her into a tight hug. It's filled with past years' worth of apology, and future years' worth of regret.

"Take care of yourself, Johnny," she says as she pulls away from my hold. And somehow with those words I know she doesn't want to keep in touch. But I understand why – her memories of me are intertwined with memories of him. And the bond they had was more than she and I ever had together. She wants to let him go, and to do that she has to let me go too. And so, because I wasn't there for her when she needed me back then, I decide to be there for her now in the way she needs.

"I will. You take care of yourself too."

She walks toward the door and opens it before turning around briefly.

"We'll talk again soon," I tell her, but we both know this is goodbye.

"Bye, Johnny," she says with a sad smile.

"Goodbye, Emily."

* * *

_If you've got the time, I'd love to hear your thoughts and/or opinions._


	27. Football

_Sincere thanks to those who continue to leave reviews, your support is __**very much**__ appreciated. As a writer, it's __**always**__ great to hear feedback on your writing, so thank you!_

_This conversation is set somewhere during late season 5 or early 6 (doesn't really matter when...), long before the Doyle saga. After a couple of heavier conversations, this one is a touch more light-hearted._

_To those who have left suggestions for conversations, I assure you, I am working on them!_

_Happy reading =)_

* * *

_"Whereas fanatic is usually a pejorative word, a fan is someone who has roots somewhere." – Simon Kuipers, Soccernomics_

"You've really never watched it?" I ask incredulously.

"Why would I?" Morgan asks, as if the very suggestion is preposterous.

"It's the most popular sport on earth!"

"Statistically speaking, the final is the most widely viewed televised event in the world," Reid adds, a grin spreading across his face as he spouts off facts.

"No way that's true," he says in disbelief. "Millions of people watch the SuperBowl."

"True, but not as many as the World Cup. This year's SuperBowl had an overall viewership of 154.3 million, while the last World Cup final in 2006 was watched by over 715.1 million people, worldwide. Over the course of the tournament it's estimated to have had over 26.29 billion unique viewers."

"Have _you_ ever watched it?" he asks, turning his attention to Reid.

"Well, no. But I'm not athletic!"

"Rossi, my man, I stick to the _real_ football," he says, turning his attention back to me.

"You mean _American_ football?" I say, failing to hold back the disdain in my tone.

"Yes, I mean American football. Also known as just plain ol' football. What you're talking about is soccer."

"Then why do they mainly use their hands in this "_football"_ that you speak of?" Emily asks from a few desks over, her attention finally drawn away from her paperwork and onto our discussion.

"Why do you insist on calling it "football" when everyone else refers to it as soccer?" he asks, ignoring her question.

"Actually, most nations around the world refer to it as football or some variation of that, depending on their language. Further, the sport's international governing body is FIFA - Fédération Internationale de Football Association. North America, specifically the U.S. and Canada, is somewhat unique in its tendency to refer to it as soccer. Although the history behind the name is widely disputed," Reid supplies.

"Plus that name actually makes sense. They use their _feet_ to kick around a _ball. _Foot… ball. See, makes sense!" Emily says with a cheeky grin on her face.

"Whatever," he grumbles as he shoots a glare toward her.

"Well, the final of this year's World Cup is this Sunday, and you're all more than welcome to join me in watching," I say, bringing the discussion back to the reason I'd brought it up in the first place.

"I'm in!" Reid says enthusiastically. "I've never watched a World Cup final… Or any football at all, actually."

"I'm in, so long as you're cooking," Garcia calls from across the room at the coffee maker. "I'll let JJ know as well."

"Emily?" I prompt.

"Sure, as long as you supply the alcohol," she says with a grin.

"That I can do. Morgan, you in?"

"I don't know-"

"Oh shut up, you. He's coming," Emily says as she swats his arm.

"But I-"

He stops his sentence as he meets her glare.

"Right, see you there."

* * *

"Mudgie! Behave yourself," I scold the over-excited Labrador currently attacking Emily with affection, and resting his front paws on her as he jumps up, greeting her at the door.

"It's fine, Dave," she says as she chuckles and scratches behind his ear. "Here, I brought some leftover paella. Mostly because I can't stand to even look at it anymore."

"Paella?" I ask, as I take the container from her.

"It's a traditional Spanish rice dish. One of my favourites, but there's a limit to how much of it you can eat," she explains quickly, turning her attention back to Mudgie who has now flipped onto his back on the ground. She obliges him, crouching down to spoil him with a belly rub.

Leaving a very content Mudgie with Emily, I make my way to the kitchen to put away the container and get drinks for us.

"Red or white?" I call out.

"Whichever pairs with what we're eating," she calls back, and I can't help but smile. There is something to be said for a person who chooses their wine based on the food to be consumed, rather than their personal preference. I sometimes forget she was raised on fine-dining, and not the hot dogs and burgers most American kids grow up with. Then again, her childhood certainly doesn't fit the mould of your typical American kid.

Opening up a bottle of red, I pour out two glasses and hand one to her as she enters the kitchen, Mudgie not far behind.

"Thanks," she says, accepting the glass. Closing her eyes, she brings the glass to her nose and inhales deeply, a wide smile spreading across her face. "Mmmm. Fantastic."

I grin in reply, "I know. Simply divine. Wait until you have it with the fresh focaccia al rosmarino and pizza margherita I'm making, it brings the flavours to a whole other level."

"I can't wait."

Mudgie begins pushing his snout against her leg, seeking more attention.

"Mudgie," I scold, shooting a disapproving look at him.

"Aw, c'mon Dave. Quit being such a hard-ass," she says, a mischievous twinkle flashing in her eyes. "Poor Mudgie. Left all alone while we're away catching the bad guys. Bet you just want some love, yeah?"

He barks loudly in response. I swear he understands everything we say. At her request, he sits down obediently, his tail still wagging quickly, clearly happy to please someone willing to shower him with attention and affection.

"Does he do any tricks?"

I shrug, "Sometimes. He's pretty stubborn most of the time and does whatever he likes."

"So he takes after you, then," she says, an eyebrow raised. She turns her attention back to Mudgie, "Shake a paw?"

He lifts his paw and places it in her hand, his eyes clearly twinkling with happiness at the attention.

"Roll over?"

He rolls back and forth a few times before sitting once more. She turns to face me once more, "Stubborn, eh?"

I shake my head, "He must like you."

"Guess so."

"So, are you here to actually watch the game, or just to piss off Morgan?" I ask.

"While that's definitely a worthy reason for coming, I actually happen to have an appreciation for football."

I raise an eyebrow in question.

"I've spent a good portion of my life in European countries, how can I not?"

"I suppose. Which was your favourite?"

"Does my answer have an impact on whether or not I get more wine?"

I laugh, "No, Bella. No strings attached on this one."

"In that case, I've always loved France."

"Your grandfather retired there, right?"

"Yeah. I spent a lot of time with him on the French Alps as a kid. But Paris is amazing; it's such a romantic city."

"I never took you for the romantic type."

She shrugs, "The city itself has this…feel to it. When I was a kid it always felt like magic could happen there."

"What about Italy? You spent some time there as a kid, right?"

"Yeah, when I was a teenager."

I nod in recognition as Matthew Benton comes to mind. "Do you think you'd ever go back there?"

"Honestly, I don't know. While I have a lot of happy memories there, not all of my time there was sunshine and roses," she says, her eyes becoming thoughtful as she's no doubt thrown into some memories.

I shoot her a sympathetic look, "Of course. But you shouldn't let your childhood and your past dictate where you go. Guide you, yes, but not dictate."

"Right… my childhood," she says quietly. It almost seems she is trying to convince herself that that's what she was talking about. "Anyway, I'm pretty happy here in the States now, so maybe I'll keep my worldly travels to a minimum for a while."

"And we're happy to have you here," I say, raising my glass. She smiles, we touch our glasses together, and enjoy a gulp of fine red wine.

* * *

An hour later my house is filled with friends, and, if I'm being honest, family. With kickoff only a few minutes away, I watch as Emily explains the basic rules to Morgan.

"Okay, so they play 2 halves that are 45 minutes each, right?" Morgan asks, his brow furrowed in concentration.

She nods, "Yep. And if the game is tied at the end they'll play 2 periods of extra time."

"What happens if nobody scores in that time?"

"Then it'll go to penalty kicks."

"And they only use their feet, right? The whole time, I mean."

"For the most part. The goalkeeper can use his hands inside the box, and players will throw the ball from the touchlines to put the ball back into play. But the rest of the time it's all feet."

"How tight are the uniforms?" Garcia asks.

Emily makes a noise of amusement, "Not overly… sorry PG."

She frowns, "What am I doing here then?"

"Rossi's supplying the food. And alcohol," she says as though it were just a matter of fact. She pauses for a moment, considering something. "Oh, and sometimes the players will trade shirts after the game."

"I'll give you the food and alcohol, but so what about the shirts?"

JJ smiles knowingly, "Well, in order to trade, they have to remove their own first…"

"OH! I knew I liked soccer," she says, a grin spreading across her face.

"Baby girl, behave, there are kids around," Morgan says, shooting a quick glance to Henry and Jack who are settled on the ground, their eyes taking in pre-game celebrations on the large TV.

"This _is_ me behaving," she says seriously. Morgan shakes his head in response.

"How do you know about all of this?" Reid asks.

"Football, sorry, _soccer_," she corrects herself, shooting a pointed glare to Morgan. "Is pretty much a religion in Europe. It's hard to avoid it when you spend any amount of time there. Especially Italy. Even if I did try to avoid it, an understanding of it is inevitable."

"And you played in college, right JJ?" Reid asks, swinging his attention to the blonde.

"Yep. I don't think I've ever been in better shape than those 4 years."

"You're an FBI agent, though!" Garcia says.

JJ just shrugs, "Yeah, but it's a different kind of fitness for the job. When you play, it's everything. Your diet is specially geared toward your game and practice schedule, your classes are rearranged to make sure you can make all the games and training sessions, there's a dedicated physiotherapist, strength and conditioning coach, and speed trainer assigned to the team, and the fitness training outline would put Morgan's workouts to shame."

Morgan grins, "She's right. College athletes are crazy fit. Before I blew out my knee I was probably more fit than I am now."

Emily rolls her eyes, "Your humility could use a bit of a work out."

"You're just jealous."

"Of what? Having to do 1000 sit-ups a day to maintain that? I'll take my significantly less hardcore, but still sufficient workouts, thanks."

"Less hardcore? I've seen your workout regime, it's pretty intense. Especially when I'm around," he taunts.

"You're imagining things, Morgan."

"Nope. You always work that little bit harder when I'm working out in the gym at the same time. Trying to impress someone, Princess?"

"No, but the real question is why you're watching me do my workouts," she fires back. Her expression conveys a message of "go ahead and try to worm your way out of this one".

"Uhh-" he stutters, trying in vain to get himself out of the hole he'd dug for himself. "I'm a profiler, I'm paid to analyze human behaviour."

"Of criminals, not colleagues. Now spill. Have you been watching our raven-haired beauty working out? Is there something you'd like to admit, my Chocolate Adonis?" Garcia asks, wagging her eyebrows.

"No! I- Uhh- It's hard to ignore the only other person at the gym at 5:30 in the morning."

"5:30? AM?!" Garcia shrieks.

"You're surprised? It's the only time we can fit in our workouts with this crazy schedule of ours. Plus, if his training schedule during college was anything like mine, he's probably used to early morning training," JJ says.

Morgan nods in agreement.

"Okay, soccer star. Who's gonna win then?" Morgan asks, thankful to direct the conversation back to the day's events.

JJ shrugs, "I honestly couldn't say. I'm so out of touch with the soccer world these days."

"What about you, Miss Football Expert," he asks, turning his attention back to Emily.

She pauses for a moment to consider, "Well, neither team has ever won the World Cup, and both were pretty successful in the group and knock-out stages. But I didn't get a chance to watch either play other than highlights from a couple games…"

"Oh, come on Princess. Put your money where your mouth is. Who's gonna win it?"

She glares at him for a moment before responding, "Spain. Too much attacking prowess for the Dutch to handle, I think. I'm guessing it'll be a tight game though. Probably go to extra-time, and only a goal or two to decide it."

"Is that so? Well I happen to think the Dutch will win," Morgan says, his competitiveness getting the better of him.

"Care to make a wager on that, Agent Morgan?" Emily asks, her own competitive nature flaring up.

"$100?"

"Nah, that's too easy. Coffee and breakfast for a week," she amends.

"Okay, and a day's worth of consults," he adds.

"Coffee and breakfast for a week, a day's worth of consults, and Wednesday's lunch," she says, upping the ante.

He appears to consider the terms for a moment before adding one final thing. "And tickets to a live sporting event."

She raises an eyebrow, "You know, D.C. has a local footy team…"

"And a local _football_ team too," I add.

"Fine. Loser buys coffee and breakfast for a week and Wednesday's lunch, does a day's worth of consults, and buys tickets to either a D.C. United game or a Redskins game. Deal?"

"You've got yourself a deal, Princess. I look forward to my coffee tomorrow."

"That's funny, because I'm looking forward to enjoying a rather expensive lunch on Wednesday, courtesy of your wallet."

I share a look with Hotch and shake my head knowingly – those two are far too competitive for their own good. But I must admit, watching them is entertainment in and of itself.

"Kids, behave," I chide. "The game's about to start and the food's ready."

* * *

She is grinning widely, and his scowl could strike fear into small children.

"I can't believe they lost! They had all the momentum."

"Nonsense. The Spanish had it under control. But what I think is more significant here is that you_ enjoyed_ the game," she says, rubbing some salt in his wound.

"Hardly. Nothing beats watching my Bears in the NFL."

"Admit it – you had fun."

"Did not."

"Did too," she says, sticking her tongue out at him in a _very_ immature fashion.

"Kids! Don't make me ground you," I scold. "Morgan, we all saw it – you enjoyed yourself today. Admit it, football isn't as bad as you thought."

He exhales in frustration, "I guess it wasn't so bad."

Emily grins at his admission, "I'm thinking Spanish sounds good for Wednesday's lunch. I know this great little place that's not too far from the office."

She strides toward the front door and grabs her coat. Morgan begins muttering under his breath about how he doesn't like Spanish food, but I reach out and grab his arm to stop him, "At least the company will be good."

He flashes a wide smile, "That it will, Rossi."

I walk him to the door, and find Emily just on her way out. "Thanks for the paella."

"Thanks for hosting this little viewing party," she says.

"Drive safely, Bella."

"I will. But who knows what Morgan will do in his despair over losing our bet," she says with a wink, and sticking her tongue out at Morgan once more. "I'll let you know when I'm free to go to that footy match."

"Get out of here Princess, before I say something I'm gonna regret."

"Bye boys," she says in a sing-song voice.

"That woman is crazy," Morgan says as he shrugs on his coat.

"Maybe, but she's certainly something," I say.

* * *

_I'd __**love**__ to hear your thoughts if you have the time. I appreciate reviews more than you know._

_And as a final note, for those who might be wondering: the statistics Reid cited are actually fairly accurate as far as I can tell (seriously, I did some research and everything)._


	28. An Englishman, Flowers, & Updates

_Heartfelt thanks to all who read and left reviews on the last chapter. Your feedback is always appreciated. __And to those who have left suggestions for conversations, I haven't forgotten - they're being worked on!_

_The quote for this chapter comes from the song that served as the inspiration for this chapter, so if you're so inclined, have a listen - it's fantastic._

_Happy reading =)_

* * *

_"I thought of you and where'd you gone, and the world spins madly on." – The Weepies, World Spins Madly On_

There are some things you hear pretty often after the death of a friend. Little phrases that people pull out to comfort you and try to make you feel a bit less burdened. The kind of stuff they might put on condolence cards but with far more eloquent (and yet still seemingly cheesy) phrasings.

"It gets easier."

"You learn to live with it."

"You have to honour their life, not their death."

"Time heals all wounds."

That last one irks me something awful. Time, in my experience, is not a healer. It is a conniving little bastard that likes to poke and prod you for fun. Vindictive little piece of-

But I digress.

It's been exactly six months since we lost her. Well, to be more specific since she was ripped away from us. It's been six months since we all started to try and figure out how to live in a world without Emily Prentiss in it. I'm not sure any of us have quite figured it out, and if we have, we haven't shared with each other. It's still hard, and I think it always will be. But we each deal with it in our own way.

Hotch does what he does best: he keeps being our fearless leader, even if he's off in a foreign country. Our resident genius shoves his nose into books and plays chess against himself on a daily – sometimes hourly – basis, and reaches out to JJ for comfort. JJ spends time with Henry and Will, hopefully finding comfort in them. Rossi mourns over the loss of his de facto daughter by taking Mudgie on long walks and trips, and occasionally visiting her grave. And Derek? He disappeared to Chicago for a while, and then swore up and down to find Doyle and do to him what he did to Emily.

And me? I try desperately to remember the good times – the ladies' nights and subsequent hangovers, the constant witty banter she kept up with Derek, the constant stream of teasing she threw boy genius' way, the team dinners. And of course I visit her weekly to give her updates about all things Penelope and BAU related.

And that ritual is what brings me to the flower shop, early this cool Monday morning. Simon, the shop owner, smiles brightly and waves hello as I enter. I offer a smile in return, but I can feel it doesn't reach my eyes.

"Good morning, miss. The usual for today?" he asks in his usual soft voice, his English heritage evident in the lilt of his accent.

I nod in response.

"Just give me a moment please – I'll get them wrapped up for you. It's a bit chilly today, and I'd imagine you don't want them damaged before you can deliver them."

I shake my head, "It's fine, Simon. They'll be outside in the chilly weather anyway."

"It matters not, miss! They should be top notch when you deliver them."

I offer a small smile as I realize he is far too stubborn and proud of his work to allow me to walk away with unwrapped flowers. "Okay then. Go ahead."

He grins and turns on his heel to grab the wrap from the backroom. I watch idly as he delicately wraps the flowers, protecting them from whatever harm might befall them courtesy of the chill that had set in. Upon finishing, he steps around the counter and presents the flowers to me.

"Here you are, miss. Red ones today."

"Thank you, my noble gentleman. You are too kind," I reply, though my response is admittedly lacking some pizzazz. I pull a twenty from my wallet and hold it out, but he pulls his hands back.

"Not today miss. Today they're on me."

"Why?"

"Just about six months since the first time you came in here. Your heart seems especially heavy today."

I sigh. He's right. Today's difficult on many levels.

"It doesn't get any easier," he continues with a small shake of his head.

I begin to nod and smile sadly, but stop abruptly as my mind processes what he said. "Wait, what?"

"I said: it doesn't get any easier. Living… grieving."

"Good sir, you sure know how to comfort a lady," I quip, sadness creeping into my tone.

He put his hands on mine and squeezes gently. "It doesn't get easier, but you get stronger."

"I sure hope you're right," I say, the tears threatening to fall at any moment.

"I know I'm right, miss. I see it in you."

"In me?"

"Do you remember the first time you came in?"

I nod. Like that horrible night in the hospital waiting room, it's hard to forget.

* * *

_"Can I help you with something, miss?"_

_"Hmm.. what? I'm sorry, did you say something?" I reply, my mind having been somewhere else altogether. The way I've been lost lately it's a wonder I managed to open the door to the shop._

_"I asked if there was anything I could help you with."_

_"Umm, yes actually. I need to pick out some flowers," I cringe inwardly – as if that wasn't plain to see, seeing as how I'm in a flower shop._

_"Okay. Did you have a particular type in mind?" he asks, making no note of my foolish statement._

_"No," I shake my head. "Just…something bright, and cheery. Nothing depressing."_

_The shop owner nods and tilts his head slightly. "Miss, can I ask… the flowers – who are you buying them for?"_

_I press my lips together in an effort to hold in the emotion threatening to spill out. "A very good friend of mine."_

_"Ah. You were close with them?" Somehow he knows they're for not for a congratulatory occasion._

_I nod. "Very."_

_"Tell me about them."_

_I'm taken aback by his request, and I can't help the looks of confusion and surprise that cross my face._

_"Ah, miss, I don't mean to pry. I just firmly believe that flowers bought for someone should always properly represent the reason why they were bought."_

_"How do you mean?" I ask, somewhat skeptically._

_"Take roses, for example. Most people believe they only symbolize love and beauty. But the colour of a rose distinguishes many meanings – yellow roses are a symbol of friendship and care, pink ones represent gratitude and admiration, and green symbolize best wishes for a new life or wishes for recovery of good health."_

_"Oh."_

_"So, tell me about your friend, so I can help you choose the best fitting flower," he says gently._

_I pause, trying to think of a suitable description of the person that was Emily Prentiss. Words don't seem to do her justice. The words 'Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity' flash in my mind, but I dismiss them. She may have embodied every one of those, but that wasn't who she was._

_"She was kind and compassionate, and stubborn, and very loyal," I pause to swallow and restrain the sob threatening to escape. "And she was the bravest person I've ever known."_

_"Honourable?"_

_"Very."_

_"Gladioli then," he says, in a tone which leaves no room for questions or alternatives._

_"Gladioli?" I ask, not familiar with the flower._

_"A gladiolus symbolizes strength of character, faithfulness and honour."_

_I nod slowly. That's definitely Emily._

_"In some cases they can symbolize infatuation, but first and foremost they symbolize remembrance – a promise to not forget the recipient."_

_"I'll take 5." One for every year I knew her._

* * *

"You're stronger today than you were six months ago. And six months from now, you'll be even stronger."

"Thank you," I say as I wrap an arm around him and hug him gently. Though our interactions are brief, he feels like more than just a stranger, or a flower shop owner. He didn't know Emily, and doesn't really know me, but he understands what we had. He gets that I lost a part of myself six months ago and haven't been able to figure out how to fill that hole. He gets that while some may call my weekly visits with her dysfunctional, they are therapeutic for me. Somehow, he understands that with every visit I grow to accept her death.

"Of course, miss. I'll see you next week?"

I smile, "Definitely."

* * *

"Hey E," I begin. "It's me, PG."

The silence that follows my usual greeting is always deafening. I shift on my feet, and smooth my skirt out.

"I see Rossi's been here," I say, noting the single orange rose resting in front of the headstone.

A few weeks after I started coming here, I ran into Rossi. I watched as he laid the soft pink rose on the headstone, and placed the orange rose gently at the base of it. He said something I couldn't hear, and then turned to leave. His eyes met mine as we passed each other and he pulled me into a brief, but tight hug. That was when I knew he was hurting far more than he let on.

The following week I asked Simon what the flowers Rossi had chosen represented.

_"A single orange rose you say?"_

_"Yep. And a sort of pale pink rose. But it looked a bit different than the orange one."_

_"Well the single orange rose represents pride. It conveys the sentiment "I'm proud of you". As for the pale pink one, did it look anything like this?"_

_I nod as he points to a picture in a book on the counter. "Yeah, just like that."_

_"The tea rose. It symbolizes remembrance. It means, "I'll remember you always." Whoever chose those cared a great deal for your friend."_

"He misses you something awful, Em. He tries to ignore it and play it cool, but man does he miss you. But he's doing okay, so don't worry. He even agreed to part with a few more of his recipes for me to try. He's taking another camping trip with Mudgie this weekend, assuming we don't get stuck chasing a baddie, that is.

"Let's see, Reid's doing okay too. He misses playing chess with you, I think. He keeps trying to coerce Derek into playing with him, but my Chocolate Adonis just won't go for it. I'm not sure he knows what to do now that he's winning every game. But he's spending tons of time with Henry. Poor little guy keeps asking after you. I don't think JJ's had the heart to tell him.

"Our favourite blonde gumdrop is doing fantastic as a profiler, though after hanging around you fine folks for all those years it's a wonder she didn't do this years ago. She misses you, of course. We haven't been able to visit any of our old haunts. It just feels wrong going without you. She's spending as much time with Will and Henry as our still crazy schedules allows. Those two still haven't gotten hitched though. Boggles my mind, that does.

"Hotch is stoic, and being our fearless leader, as always. I saw Jack the other day, Derek and I took him to the zoo. That little boy sure misses you. He keeps asking Derek if he'll ask you what book he should read next. Apparently he finished Charlotte's Web and needs to know what to read next. I don't think Hotch has had the heart to tell him either.

"And that brings us to Derek… He's… Well he's a bit lost. He tries to be everybody's pillar of strength, but I see how hard it is for him. He misses his partner. Don't get me wrong, he and JJ are quite the dynamic duo, but they just don't click the same way you two used to. He'll catch him, Em. I swear to you, he'll get him – we'll get him. I think he's sort of tried to put his grief on hold while he's finding Doyle. I want to catch that sicko just as much as any of us, but I'm scared for what Derek will do _after_ he catches him. He's so focused on finding him, I'm not sure he's really dealt with the fact that you're gone. Then again maybe that's what he did when he disappeared off to Chicago. That man is an enigma, that's for sure.

"As for me, I'm okay, I suppose. Making a real effort to be cheerful for everyone. It's hard, because I know that I won't get to tease you about your mysterious past, or your apparent lack of knights in shining armour. And I know I won't hear your laugh, or watch your eyes twinkle with happiness when Henry jumps into your arms. It's hard, but I'm trying to move on- No, not move on. I'm trying to learn to live without you.

"Anyway, I've got some red gladioli for you today, courtesy of none other than our favourite florist, Simon. He insisted on wrapping them up tightly, so the cold wouldn't spoil them. Told me they should be "top notch" when I give them. He's right – only the best for you, doll."

I pause, letting that deafening silence fall over me once more. I glance at my watch and realize I should really get going, lest I be late for work.

"I've gotta go, my raven-haired crime fighter," I say, a few tears spilling out. "I still miss you like crazy, and if you feel like, you know, dropping in for a chat, or sending me some sign that you're a-okay, I'm totally cool with that. But if you can't, then no problem. I just hope you're at peace now, and have let the past go. If anyone deserves some peace and quiet, it's you."

I brush some stray leaves off the headstone, and collect the partially wilted gladioli I'd left last week. I place the fresh flowers down gently, and rest my hand briefly on the stone, closing my eyes and praying for peace for her.

"Take care, Em. I'll be back next week."

* * *

_If you have opportunity to do so, I'd love to hear your thoughts and impressions._

_Also, in case you were wondering, the bit about the flowers' meanings is mostly conjecture on my part - I'm by no means an expert on how these things work, but I did do some preliminary (and very basic) research._


	29. Following Footsteps

_As always, __**many**__ thanks for the reads and reviews. I'm always rather chuffed when my inbox lights up with review notifications. Makes my day, it does._

_Took me a long while to find a quote to pair with this conversation and that's what stopped me from posting this for almost a month. I take my quote selection very seriously, what can I say? (Hopefully it's not all for nothing...do you even read the quotes? Lol.)_

_A wonderful tune by the name of "Growing Up" by Run River North served as my soundtrack to writing this, check it out if you so desire._

_And of course, happy reading =)_

* * *

_"The footsteps a child follows are most likely to be the ones his parents thought they covered up." – James Dobson_

I curl up on the swing that overlooks the green area that the house backs onto. The temperature is beginning to fall, with the last remnants of summer disappearing as August comes to a close and September inches ever closer. With a gentle push off the ground, the bench begins to swing gently, suspended from the large tree branches above. As the sun begins to creep toward the horizon, I let my thoughts wander, relishing in the quiet and calm.

An hour later I'm startled out of my aimless thinking by the jingling of a dog collar, and a couple loud barks. Not long after, Kilgore jumps in front of me, his face conveying a rather pathetic expression, no doubt trying to guilt me into letting him onto the swing. When I don't acknowledge his presence his eyes seem to grow larger and, somehow he looks even more pathetic.

"You know the rules, buddy. You can't come up. Mom'll have my head if she catches you up here."

He whines loudly, dropping his head, but maintaining his gaze on me.

"Aw, c'mon buddy. Don't look at me like that."

He whines again, this time with an insistent feel to it.

After a few minutes he still hasn't given up, so I exhale loudly and pat the space on the bench next to me. "Alright then, up you come."

He cocks his head to one side and pauses for a moment as if considering how to make it onto the moving target. I drop one foot and halt the swing's movement, allowing him enough time to jump up and lay down beside me, his head settling on my lap. Once he's settled I push off again, easing the swing into its smooth rocking once more. I drop my hand and begin absently scratching behind his ear. He lets out a content sigh, and relaxes even further.

"You're such a suck, Kilgore," I tell him. "You're worse than Campbell."

A stream of fond memories flows through my mind and makes my heart ache slightly for our former pet. After Clooney, Dad's old bulldog, died, Mom bought him Campbell, an energetic and fiercely loyal Boxer puppy. A year after they got him Matthew and I were born, and Campbell appointed himself our official protector. He stood guard while we slept and was instantly awake and fetching our parents at the smallest of noises from us. We reached a lot of milestones with him in tow – rolling over, with him serving as our barrier; crawling, with his head gently nudging us away from dangerous objects; walking, with our tiny hands clutching his ear, fur, head, or whatever we could use to stay steady; sibling rivalry, with him acting as our referee. After living almost 10 years as a part of the family, we were devastated when he died. Not 2 weeks after he passed, Dad came home with another Boxer puppy, which Mom named Kilgore. He's been our loyal companion for the last 6 years, doing an impressive job filling Campbell's role as protector.

"Hey you." The soft voice startles me out of my thoughts. I turn my head toward the source, and find Mom standing there, holding a blanket.

I offer a small smile, "Hey Mom."

"Mind if I join you?"

I shrug. "If you can find room."

She narrows her gaze at Kilgore's relaxed form. "Oh, I don't think that'll be a problem. Kilgore, it's time for dinner."

At her words he jumps up and sprints toward the house. We both chuckle at his antics.

"Told you," she says as she sits down beside me, spreading the blanket over herself and offering me half of it. I take it gratefully, noticing the chill that has settled into the air.

I know she can feel the tension and stress radiating off my body. Even if she wasn't an expert on human behavior, I'm pretty sure she would've known before she even came out here. She always knows when Matty or I am "off". I guess it's a "Mom" thing.

Having her here now makes me realize exactly how much I've missed her these past two weeks while she was away at some law enforcement conference. It was a really big deal for her to go, but the look she gave me before she left betrayed how much she wanted to stay. I think maybe even then, 2 weeks ago, she knew something was "off" with me.

I'm suddenly overcome with a need to be held, and decide to lean onto Mom's shoulder. She swings an arm up and around my shoulders, pulling me closer. I curl my legs underneath me and melt into her embrace. I feel safer and more relaxed already. I'm reminded vividly of the many times she and I have been in this exact position over the years. From a broken heart to a sprained wrist to Grandma's heart attack, this swing at sunset with the well-worn blanket covering us has been our spot to heal.

"How've you been? I missed you while I was away," she says, her voice once again startling me out of my thoughts.

"Okay," I reply.

She raises an eyebrow in disbelief and speaks gently, "Tegan."

"It's been fine," I say. Even I can tell my tone is far from convincing.

"Hey, it's me."

I stay silent, unsure of how to respond.

"Derek says you've been quiet this past week."

I shrug. "I'm always quiet, you know that.

"And he says you've been out here for a couple hours now," she adds.

"I like it out here," I say defensively. It's true, I've always spent a lot of time here, and she of all people should know that.

"Kilgore abandoned his new toy to join you out here. He doesn't do that just for an everyday scratch behind the ears. Even he knew something was up with you. Now spill, what's going on?"

The internal battle about whether to spill or not continues to wage fiercely. On the one hand, I desperately want to tell her, but on the other, I don't want to set myself up to disappoint her.

"Tee…" she says softly, prompting me as she rubs my arm soothingly.

"I got accepted to the FBI Youth Leadership program," I finally say, the words tumbling out of my mouth quickly.

"I didn't know you applied."

"Yeah. I didn't want to tell you. Or Dad."

She frowns, "How come?"

"Because I know you guys don't want me to have anything to do with law enforcement."

"What makes you say that?"

"I overheard you talking to Dad about it last year. You said you hope neither of us follows in your footsteps."

"Tee, I-" She stops abruptly and exhales quickly as she closes her eyes briefly. She pauses for a moment, considering her words. "I wasn't talking about you going into law enforcement."

"You weren't?"

"No. I was saying that I don't want you to follow in my footsteps and go into a career that slowly eats away at you, and makes you close yourself off from everyone you love."

I frown in confusion, "But you're not closed off." It's true. My whole life she's been nothing but a source of comfort and love, and she's always been willing to give a hug. And she and Dad talk all the time – about anything and everything.

"Maybe not now, but I used to be."

"You did?"

I feel her head nod slowly, "And it almost broke me completely. I internalized everything and shoved all my feelings and emotions down to maintain a calm, cool façade. But when you deal with the evils of the world day in and day out, and you try and compartmentalize everything, burnout is more than a possibility – it's a reality."

"So what did you do?"

"I spoke to some contacts I had and managed to arrange taking over a job to run Interpol in London, taking a more supervisory and administration-based position. I knew I had to get out of the hole I found myself in."

"You ran Interpol in London?! How come I never knew this?"

"Because I never ended up going. Uncle Dave and your Dad convinced me to stay and teach at the Academy instead. It was the change of pace I needed, but it let me stay near my family for support."

"Do you regret not going to London? I mean, that would've been an amazing job."

She answers very quickly and with confidence. "Not at all. Staying was the right choice. If I hadn't, you wouldn't be here, and your father would probably still be a bachelor," she says with a chuckle.

"What about selfishly? Do you wish you'd gotten the opportunity to lead your own team?"

"I suppose on some level, but like I said, staying here was the right choice. I'm not sure how well a move to London would have gone for me."

"What do you mean?"

"Can you imagine your Aunt Penelope dealing with me moving thousands of miles away?" she asks with a chuckle.

I let out a laugh, "Yeah, I guess that wouldn't have gone well."

We settle into a comfortable silence as we watch the sun creep closer and closer to the horizon. She rubs my shoulder soothingly and I feel my stress continue to ebb away.

"Listen, Tee, you're still young. You might change your mind a thousand times before actually picking a career path, but you can go into law enforcement if that's what you want."

"Really?"

"Yeah. This sounds horribly clichéd, but I really do just want you to be happy. If joining the FBI is what you want then your father and I will support you 100%. I can't promise I won't worry 24/7 though."

"But if I fail at this I'll be the kid with two FBI agents for parents who can't get into the FBI."

"So what?"

"So that's gonna suck big time."

"Yeah, probably," she agrees.

I'm dumfounded by her blasé response. "Okay, I might not be the mom in this situation, but I'm pretty sure you're supposed to have sage words of wisdom for me."

"You want words of wisdom?"

"Yes!"

"Okay, here's some: you can't put in a half-assed effort to live your life."

"That's your advice?"

"Yep."

"Well that's not freaking helpful."

"Babe, you gotta go all in. You can't go through life avoiding anything and everything that might hurt you, you'd never actually live. You have to live your life throwing yourself into it all the way."

"But how do I know I'll be able to pick myself up after it does hurt me?"

"You don't. But you have to do it anyway. Besides, that's what your family is for," she says as a smile creeps onto her face. "We're stuck with you, no matter what," she teases lovingly.

She takes a deep breath and exhales before continuing. "Trust me, when you get older you want to be able to look back and say that you _really_ lived, because if you can't, that's what you'll regret most."

The sun is halfway set by this point and I pull the blanket tighter around me. Mom pulls me even closer, and presses a kiss to my head.

"Tee, is this something you want? And I mean _really_ want."

"Yeah," I reply in a whisper.

"Then we'll get you there."

"Thanks, Mom."

"Anytime, Tee."

We fall into another comfortable silence as the sun finally dips below the horizon. Reluctantly, when the mosquitoes become too prevalent to ignore, we collect the blanket and begin making our way back to the house.

"Hey Mom?" I say just before we open the back door.

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

She smiles and wraps her arms around me in a tight hug that I return in kind.

"I love you too, kid."

* * *

_If you have the time, I'd __**love**__ to hear your thoughts._

_P.S. Okay, I admit I had way too much fun picking the breed and naming the dogs. In the end I went with the always adorable Boxer and of course Vonnegut characters for the names._


	30. What Took You So Long?

_Big thanks to everyone who left a few (or many!) words on the last chapter - your support is __**much**__ appreciated._

_Here is the continuation of __**the**__ Morgan-Prentiss conversation. Hopefully all you Morgan-Prentiss fans enjoy it - I know I had fun writing it._

_As always, happy reading =)_

* * *

_"Kiss me, and you will see how important I am." – Sylvia Plath_

"Stay," I say, my voice so quiet I'm not sure she heard me. I can only hope she understands what I'm asking.

She presses her lips together in a smile as she nods, and I see small tears glisten in the corners of her dark eyes.

"Okay," she whispers.

"Really? I ask, not quite believing what I'd heard. "You'll stay?"

She bites her bottom lip shyly before answering in the form of a question. "Do you really want me to?"

My mind barely registers her question as my eyes meet her gaze and all I can notice is that her eyes seem impossibly large and of infinite depth, while her expression is a mix of hope and preparedness for disappointment.

In that moment I see a side of Emily Prentiss I've never seen before; one which is shy, and hopeful, and naïve, and soft. It's a side that's been tucked away for a long time I think, hidden beneath layer upon layer of strong defenses hardened over the years by letdowns and disappointment. In that moment I see beyond the decorated FBI, CIA, and Interpol agent, and beyond the daughter of a respected diplomat. I see into the soul of a woman desperate to find her place in this world, and find the person she's supposed to search for it with. I see the side of her that wants for love, and not-so-secretly hopes for that fairy-tale ending.

"More than anything," I breathe.

At my words, she inhales and squeezes her eyes shut as the corners of her lips turn upward. When she lets out the breath, she opens her eyes, and I watch as a few stray tears escape. I wipe them away gently with my thumb, and watch her eyes look at me with that mix of fear and hope – almost like she's waiting for the other shoe to drop, for me to leave.

I consider saying something to banish the very thought that I would leave, but decide to let my actions do the talking. I lean in, close my eyes and brush my lips against hers. It takes just a fraction of a second, but in that time I feel the fear she was holding onto dissipate, and she seems to relax. My hand finds its way to the back of her head, my fingers winding through her hair. Every barrier we'd carefully put up has been broken down, and I find myself kissing her with a passion and intensity I'd never experienced before. Whereas the previous kisses were tentative, gentle and searching, this one is passionate and fiery.

This time when we break apart, her eyes remain closed for longer, and she seems stunned. When her eyes do open, they're wide and dark with passion. I see a familiar mischievous twinkle in her eyes as she grins.

"What the hell took you so long?"

I let out a chuckle. "Honestly? Part of me was worried you'd attack me for trying anything."

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

"What? You've got a gun, and are a highly trained CIA and FBI agent. I think my fear was justified."

She covers her mouth with her hand, and tries to contain her laughter, but ultimately fails as loud laughs fill the room, echoing off the walls. I shake my head at her antics, but I'm struck by how happy and free she looks in this instant. Her eyes are alive with laughter, and her smile is wide and genuine for the first time in months. And I think that maybe she'd be okay with being like this forever – that maybe she'd be happy with me forever. And I know that I would be okay being like this forever, and that I would be happy with her forever.

"Didn't you go to get food?" she asks suddenly, her laughter finally dying down.

"Yeah, but _someone_ distracted me with this piano," I tease. "I left it in the foyer. Come on, I know the perfect place we can eat it."

We both rise from the piano bench and head toward the foyer. I grab the bags and head toward the back door, pausing briefly to grab a stray blanket and throwing it over my arm.

"Come on, Princess," I say, holding out my free hand. "Let's go before we lose all the light."

She smiles shyly once more and puts her hand into mine. Our fingers intertwine and I lead her out of the house, toward the back of the property. I stop underneath a large sycamore tree, and drop the bags of food and the blanket. I pull her close and release our hands, wrapping my arms around her waist. Her arms find their way around my neck, and I rest my forehead on hers as I close my eyes and breathe in her scent.

"Are you really gonna stay?" I ask as I open my eyes and gaze into hers.

"Yeah, I think I am," she says softly.

"Good. I'm not sure I could take losing you again."

"Then we'll just have to make sure I don't get lost again," she says with a smile.

I lift my head, press a kiss to her forehead and pull her in for a tight hug in agreement.

* * *

"They're so beautiful when you get out of the city," she says as she stares up at the stars dotting the black canvas above.

"Not as beautiful as what I'm looking at," I say, my gaze nowhere near the stars, and instead focused intently on her.

"Ugh," she groans and rolls her eyes. "Really?"

"What?" I ask.

"A cheesy line like that is the best you've got?" she says, shooting me a rather unimpressed look.

"You wound me."

"How did you ever become known as a ladies' man? I mean, if that's the best of your material…"

"Hey, those are just rumours," I object.

"Suuuuuuuurrrree. Don't think I haven't heard all about the great Derek Morgan. I've heard the stories about you from before I joined the team."

"Uhh again, just rumours."

She raises an eyebrow.

"Okay, I might've been a bit of a player. For a little while. But I swear it was never as bad as they all said."

"Derek Morgan, admitting he wasn't as big of a player as the rumours suggest? Well that's interesting. Isn't that a reputation most guys want?"

"I'm not most guys, which is something I _really_ hope you already know. Besides, my mama would have my head if she knew how I was back then."

"Aw, that's so cute."

"What, that I'm worried what my mama thinks?"

"No, that you think she doesn't already know."

"Wait, what? She knows?"

"Mmhmm. Unless there's another reason she made such a big deal out of you bringing me home to meet her?"

"I didn't bring you home to meet her, I brought you home to help you heal."

"Regardless, she made sure to remind me, several times, that "Derek hasn't brought _any_ of his girls home" to meet her and that I "must be pretty special" to you to get that honour," she says, using air quotes to emphasize her point.

"You are, Princess. Trust me."

We fall into silence that is both comfortable and full of passion. We lay next to each other, eyes sneaking glances at the other, feeling and acting decidedly like teenagers falling in love for the first time. After a few minutes of this silence and stolen glances, she reaches out and grabs my hand. The significance of the gesture is not lost on me – Emily Prentiss is not one to express her feelings. I squeeze her hand and bring it to my lips, pressing a kiss to it before dropping our hands back on the blanket between us. It occurs to me suddenly that things make more sense with her in my life, and that I don't want to – and I'm not sure I could – ever let her go again.

"Hey Derek?" she says, interrupting my thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"You should put a swing here."

* * *

_Okay, I admit it. I absolutely __**love**__ reading your reviews. If you've got the time, I'd __love__ to hear what you think/what your impressions are._


	31. Until I Have To

_Readers, reviewers:** thank you so much** for your continuing support. I was absolutely shocked when I realized this story had surpassed 200 reviews, and grown to over 30 chapters! I never thought I'd write more than 5 conversations, and certainly never imagined anyone would bother to leave a comment or follow along. Thank you all so much for your support and kind words, it's been overwhelmingly amazing._

_Special mention to Annber03 who has been with the story from the _**_very_**_ beginning, faithfully reviewing every chapter. Big ups!_

_Aaaaaaaaand now that all o' that has been said, onto this chapter's conversation! It seemed fitting in some way that this chapter would be from JJ's point of view, given that I started this whole thing with her._

_As always, happy reading =)_

* * *

_"Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around." – Leo Buscaglia_

I wring my hands together nervously and shift on my feet. It feels like hours since the nurses asked me to wait a few minutes for them to finish. Finish what exactly, I'm not sure. Changing bandages? Adjusting medications? Preparing her for a visitor? I have no way of knowing. Nervousness practically drips off of my body as my mind races with the possibilities. Suddenly, my mind changes gears and instead begins frantically asking questions. How is she? How bad is it? Is she okay? _Will_ she be okay? Is she in a lot of pain? How did she handle being told? What do I say? What _can_ I say? What does she need from me? Why did they agree to let me see her? How long before she leaves? How long will I have to keep this secret? Will I even be able to keep this secret?

My spiraling panic is momentarily halted by a nurse speaking softly.

"Miss? Excuse me, miss? She's ready for you."

I feel my own sharp intake of breath at her words, and lift my eyes up from the ground to meet her gaze. She offers a small smile of comfort and gestures for me to enter the room, but I can't seem to make my feet move. I know she needs to see a familiar face, probably now more than ever, but the instinct to instead run and hide flashes in my mind. I shake my head slightly at the notion, dismissing it from my thoughts.

"How is she?" I ask.

"Considering the last few days she's had, pretty good."

I can't help but grimace, knowing that she was told a couple days ago about the "death" of Emily Prentiss. Somehow, for reasons that are beyond my comprehension, it's harder to control my expressions today than it was on that fateful day in the hospital.

"So you know what happened then?" she asks, noting my change in expression.

I shake my head. "I know she was given some bad news, but that's it," I say carefully. I can't afford to give anything away – her life depends on it.

The nurse casts a glance to the closed door to her room. "Whatever they told her, it must have been something awful."

I feel my eyes widen slightly, and I swallow the lump that has formed in my throat.

"I've seen and heard a lot in my day, but... the despair that came out of her after they entered that room was something else. We had to step in and sedate her so she wouldn't worsen her injuries from all the movement. Those fellas were none too pleased with us barging in there, but there was no way I was going to let her go on like that. Don't think I've ever heard such pain and anguish before."

I feel tears prick the back of my eyes and I blink quickly to stop them from forming.

"Anyway," the nurse continues. "Hopefully your visit will buoy her spirits a bit. She's been terribly depressed since then. She just stares at the ceiling, and picks at her fingernails – or at least where her fingernails used to be, I'm not sure there's anything left there by now."

I swallow again, trying in vain to make the lump lodged in my throat disappear.

"Is she in a lot of pain?" I ask, fearing the answer.

The nurse shrugs. "Hard to tell because she won't say anything, but I'm guessing yes. Though, she strikes me as the type that wouldn't say anything even if she hadn't gotten that bad news. But you better get in there, the dosage of meds we gave her should knock her out completely in an hour or so."

"Thank you," I say. "Is she expecting me?"

The nurse shakes her head. "Nope, I didn't tell her. Go on in when you're ready, but remember, she's on some pretty heavy stuff, so she might be a bit out of it. And chances are she won't remember anything," the nurse finishes before turning and walking away.

Taking small steps toward the door, I take deep breaths to calm my speeding heart and mind. I try to _not _focus on the fact that I'm about to see one of my best friends for possibly the last time. Ever. I open the door, and focus all my attention on closing it behind me, not allowing myself to meet her eyes, but I can feel they are fixed on me.

"Hey," she says in a scratchy voice, her tone conveying both surprise and joy.

Still facing the door, I close my eyes to compose myself before I turn around. "Hey," I reply, hoping my voice doesn't betray my nervousness.

"What are you doing here?" she asks.

My eyes widen in surprise as I turn around to face her.

Her own eyes widen as she realizes what words tumbled out of her mouth and she begins speaking quickly to backtrack. "Oh god. No, Jayje, I didn't mean-" she stops abruptly, and winces in pain as she tries to get up.

"Hey, Em, c'mon, sit back." I say as I quickly step forward and gently support her. I watch as she squeezes her eyes shut, and continues wincing, emitting a grunt of pain as she leans back. She lifts a hand and places it gingerly on her stomach, directly over where the table leg impaled her. It takes her a minute to regain her composure, but when she does her eyes open and meet my gaze immediately.

"But I'm- I'm dead..." she says slowly, no doubt trying to explain her blunt question. I don't miss her taking short breaths after each word and squeezing the blanket tightly in her fist, no doubt trying to manage the pain now coursing through her body. Considering the warning from the nurse, I'm a little concerned with how much pain she's still in.

I offer a small smile, "Yeah, well someone had to sort out all that paperwork, didn't they?"

She smiles lazily, and for the first time I notice the glassiness of her eyes – likely an effect of the many medications she's on. There are still many tubes and wires hooked up to her, but she looks significantly better than the last time I saw her a couple weeks ago.

"How are you, Em?" I know it's a stupid question, but one I'm still compelled to ask, because I don't _actually _know the answer.

She shrugs, and winces again as the movement agitates the wound. "Pretty good for a dead girl, I guess."

I shake my head at her witty remark.

Her eyes narrow as she seems to scrutinize my expression. I should have known that even while on who knows how many medications she would see right through my mask of "everything-is-totally-okay".

"What is it?" she asks.

I shake my head, "Nothing. I'm just really glad to see you."

She smiles lazily again. "Bullshit, Jennifer. What aren't you telling me?"

I sigh. So much for keeping her spirits buoyed. "Doyle's vanished."

I'm surprised when she doesn't react.

"You won't find him," she says plainly, her tone even and cool.

"We will, Em. I promise you, we will."

"Don't make promises you can't keep. If he doesn't want to be found, he won't be."

"Em-"

"I know him. If he's gone off the grid, he's gone for good."

I shoot her a sad expression.

"It's okay," she says, trying to comfort me even though it is her _I_ should be comforting. Typical Emily. "I figured he had disappeared when they told me I was dead to the world."

I shift my weight from one foot to the other in an effort to find something to say.

"Hey, JJ. It's okay. I signed up for this. I went after him. I knew this was a possibility."

"How are you so calm about it?"

She grins, "Well these drugs they've got me on help big time. Pretty sure they added a sedative after our _esteemed_ colleagues paid me a visit and I lost it."

I smile nervously in response.

"I don't want to talk about him anymore," she says firmly.

"Okay," I agree. I'd said everything I needed to say about him anyway.

"How are they?" she asks, not needing to clarify who she is referring to.

I pause, not sure how to answer her question.

"Jayje, c'mon tell me. I'll have forgotten in an hour thanks to these meds anyway."

"Garcia is... distraught, as you can imagine. Rossi walks around like he's lost a daughter. Reid's struggling. Ashley has asked to be transferred, so that's that. Hotch is trying to manage everyone's grief, and his guilt. And Morgan... he's taken some time off and has gone to Chicago to visit his mom."

"Okay," she says. I'm taken aback by her short response, but one glance to her drooping eyelids says it all. The meds are taking effect.

"What about you?" she asks, the words slurring together slightly

"I'm here, staring at you, so I can't complain."

A silence falls over us, and I watch as her eyes drift close and her head settle further into the pillow. Her breathing becomes more rhythmic, and the wakeful tension of her body seems to dissipate. She's relaxed into sleep.

I stand up to leave and let her rest, but am startled by her voice.

"Don't go. Please." She struggles to lift her eyelids and reaches her hand out and gestures for me to sit on the chair next to her bed.

"Okay," I say as I sit once more. "I'll stay as long as you want."

She reaches out and grasps my hand with hers, her grip weak, but consistent. I'm surprised by the action – Emily Prentiss is not one to seek out affection or comfort. But then again, I guess for all intents and purposes, Emily Prentiss died in that warehouse. Still, the gesture sends a wave of guilt through me – it was me who had really made all of this happen. I know it's for her own good, but I can't help but feel guilty at putting her through all of this, and lying to the team and putting them through it all.

"Talk to me," she mumbles, the words becoming less coherent as the effect of the medications takes hold.

"About what?" I ask, at a loss for appropriate topics.

"Anything," she says quietly. "I need something to try to remember while I'm gone."

I swallow to banish the lump that had reappeared in my throat once more.

"Okay. Well little Henry is talking more and more these days."

"Yeah?" she replies, her eyes staying closed, but her hand still gripping mine as tightly as she can manage. I gently rub my thumb on her hand in an effort to soothe her, and let her know I'm still here.

"Yeah, he even throws in a few French words now and then, just to keep my on my toes. Thanks for that, by the way. I have to ask Will what the hell he's talking about, 'cause half the time I think he's regressed back to his nonsensical baby talk."

I hear a quiet half chuckle escape her lips, and feel a small squeeze from her hand. I give a small squeeze right back.

"He's taken a real liking to stargazing too. Won't let me or Will put him down to bed unless he gets to peek outside and see a star or the moon. I think we have you to thank for that as well, if his explanation is anything to go by. Apparently you told him a story about when you were younger and visited your-"

"Jayje?" She interrupts.

"Yeah?" I respond in a whisper as I lean forward so I can hear her quiet and slightly slurred speech.

"Are you coming back?"

I bite my lip and try to find a gentle way of answering.

"S'ok if you aren't. Just wanna know," she continues, her eyes staying firmly closed and her speech slowing down further as the medications take an even stronger hold on her. I can tell she's fighting them to stay awake and present in this moment.

"I- I don't know, Em. But if I can, I will."

"Mm kay," she murmurs in reply.

I feel her squeeze my hand, and I take that as my cue to continue talking. I tell her about Henry, and his rambunctious actions on the playground. I tell her about Will and his almost daily proposals. I tell her about how I'm not sure I can ever say yes to him, but how I know I can't live without him. She has long since fallen asleep, her hand's grip now loose, but I keep talking anyway. I keep talking because she asked me to stay, and I'll be damned if I let her be alone for a second longer than I have to. I know she has months, maybe even years' worth of loneliness ahead of her, so I stay. I stay longer than I planned, and I keep talking, and I keep a tight hold on her hand. I won't let go until I have to, and I won't leave until they make me.

* * *

_I can't pinpoint why, exactly, but I'm particularly proud of this conversation. Be that as it may, I'd love to hear your feedback on it, if you have the time, that is._

_I'm happy to report I have a couple more conversations nearly complete, and a bunch of ideas that are yet to be written. Of course, I'm always open to suggestions - in fact, I welcome them!_

_(P.S. To those who were slightly confused by the ending of the last conversation... The swing she suggests that Derek put up is in fact that same swing she and Tegan were sitting on in chapter 29.)_


	32. Benny

_A round of thanks to all who read and reviewed the last chapter - your comments were nothing short of wonderful. I couldn't ask for a better bunch of readers!_

_Onward and upward. We're diving back into the mind of Fran Morgan for this one._

_As always, happy reading =)_

* * *

_"The spirit of jazz is the spirit of openness." – Herbie Hancock_

"Hello?"

"Hey, Mama."

"Derek! My baby boy, how are you?"

"I'm good, Mama. I'm good."

"Yeah? I'm glad – I worry when I don't hear from you for a while."

"Mama, it hasn't been _that_ long," he says with a groan. I can practically picture him rolling his eyes.

"OW! What was that for?" he yells after I hear a smack resonate over the phone.

"Don't roll your eyes at your mother," I hear a muffled but familiar voice in the background say.

"I didn't," he says in protest, but his tone gives away his guilt. "OW. Jeez, woman. Will you stop hitting me?!"

"Be nice to your mother," the voice warns.

"Well maybe I would if I wasn't being assaulted," he quips back cheekily.

I grin widely at the exchange. I knew I liked her.

"So. Mama. How are you?"

"Oh, just fine. How's Emily?"

"She's good."

"You're quite the wordsmith, Derek," I reply with a hint of exasperation.

"Well, she is. Not much else to say."

"What are you two doing?"

"Nothing. Just hanging out. It's our weekly workout today."

"_Workout_, eh?"

"Yes, Mama. We go running, maybe lift some weights, do a little sparring."

"Mmhmm," I say, drawing out the syllables. "Sparring. Is that what they call it these days?"

"What they call wh- OH," he interrupts himself as it dawns on him. "Mama! Get your mind out of the gutter. That's terrible."

"I'm just saying, you're not getting any younger and I would like some grandbabies from you."

He groans again, "Not this again."

"Lots of them!"

"Aw c'mon, Ma."

"Okay, okay. So, what can I do for you?"

"I was calling to ask if it was okay if I came to visit this weekend. Although now I'm reconsidering…" he trails off, his voice still light with playfulness.

"Don't you dare. You can really come for the weekend?"

"Yeah, just the weekend though, I can't sneak away for any longer."

"Shame. You owe me more than a few days, Derek. It's been too long."

"I know, Mama, I know! I'm working on it, I promise. So, do you have plans or what?"

I grin, "No plans this weekend, so you're free to come. On one condition."

"What's that?" he asks.

"You bring Emily."

* * *

As I sit and wait for their flight to arrive, I'm thrown into the memories of the last time the two of them visited together. She was broken and a shell of her former self; he was lost and walking on eggshells around her. She was trying desperately to repair their friendship, while his only desire was to heal her. It had been a weekend filled with tension, but ultimately ended with her making huge strides forward, and him enjoying her progress. My heart and soul are full of hope that she is back to the confident and strong woman I'd met all those years ago, and has left behind the broken and shattered shell of a woman that held onto me for dear life as she sobbed out regrets in my kitchen. It's no way to live – something I know from experience.

My wandering mind is brought back to the present as I spy his familiar frame making its way toward me. I grin as our gazes meet, and he shoots me one of his wide smiles in return. My eyes shift to the woman walking beside him, and I'm pleased to see her step has a strength and confidence to it. She's put on some weight since I saw her last, thankfully, and seems to have shaken the emotionally drained look from her eyes. I shoot her a smile, which I'm pleased to see she returns. The smile, this time around, reaches her eyes as they twinkle with genuine happiness.

"Mama," he says, dropping his bags and wrapping his arms around me. "I've missed you."

"I should hope so, it's been months since I saw you," I say.

"Can we at least wait until we're at home before starting the guilt trip? _Please._"

I chuckle, and narrow my gaze at him. "Fine. But we're going to have a serious chat about those grandbabies you owe me."

Ignoring his groan, I turn my attention to Emily, who is watching our interaction with amusement.

"Emily," I say. "Wonderful to see you again."

"You too, Fran," she says as she gives me a quick hug.

"Well, let's get going, shall we?" I say.

I watch as Derek grabs his own bags, and snatches one of Emily's before she can pick it up.

"Derek," she says, her tone full of warning.

"Yes, Princess?" he replies, putting on a tone of innocence.

"I can carry my own bag, thank you."

"I know you can, I'm just choosing to be a gentleman about it."

She shoots him a glare before letting out a huff of frustration. But just as soon as the air has left her lips, a mischievous smile graces them. "Well, if you insist, then you can carry this one as well. A lady should never have to lift that – it's far too heavy," she says, her tone clearly patronizing.

His eyebrow shoots up in response. "Of course, _Princess_," he says, emphasizing the endearment.

"And you know what? My purse is hurting my shoulder a bit. Do you mind carrying that as well?"

He gulps. "Your purse?"

She smiles, feigning innocence. "That's not a problem, is it?" she asks, holding out her bright red purse to him.

"But it's a- You really want me to- But I'll- And I'm not-"

"I thought you were a gentleman, Derek," she says, after winking at me.

He meets her gaze and shoots her an unimpressed look before snatching the purse from her hands.

"Hey, be careful with that. Cost me a full pay-cheque. Right, where's the car parked?" she asks as she steps in line with me, leaving Derek a few paces behind to negotiate the bags.

"This way, my dear. Not too far. Although maybe we should send him to load the luggage and fetch the car," I say, my own tone becoming mischievous. "After all, it's a bit of a walk, and my old feet could use a rest…"

She grins, "Of course. You don't mind, do you Derek?"

"This is what I get for being a gentleman," I hear him grumble behind us.

* * *

We drove back to the house, thankfully avoiding most of the traffic, and stopped en route to pick up some pizza for dinner, which Emily insisted on paying for.

"You're putting me up for the weekend, it's the least I can do," she'd said, her tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. Derek just shrugged, no doubt used to her stubbornness.

After making Derek drag the bags into the house, we sit down to enjoy dinner and chat. It only takes a few minutes' worth of time in their presence for me form some suspicions about the two friends and former partners sitting in front of me. A fleeting touch, a lingering look, a subtle smile, or a twinkle of the eyes give it away. While I'd had my suspicions of what might be back when Derek brought her here to heal almost a year ago, I can tell now that they are, without a doubt, madly in love. It would appear my jokes about sparring weren't as far off as Derek had vehemently suggested.

"So, Emily. Derek tells me you travelled a lot when you were a child?" I ask, focusing my attention back on the conversation and away from my wandering thoughts.

She nods, "Yeah. My mother's an Ambassador, so we moved around a lot with her postings."

"That must have been hard – never staying in one place for too long."

She offers a half smile. "Yeah, I suppose. But on the flip side, by the time I was 10 I'd seen more countries than most people see in a lifetime, so I guess it was pretty special too."

"Was it mostly European countries you lived in?"

She nods once more. "Yeah, Italy, France, Russia, Ukraine, Spain," she lists, counting them off on her fingers. "Germany, Belgium and the U.K. for a little while. But I also lived in several Middle Eastern countries, and there was a short spell in Morocco too."

I can't help my jaw from dropping slightly. My eyes shift to Derek, and I see his jaw has dropped as well.

"I didn't realize you moved around _that_ much," he says, his eyes wide with surprise.

She shifts in her seat, clearly uncomfortable with the attention focused on her.

"Hang on, do you speak _all_ those languages?" he asks, his eyes still wide.

She shakes her head, "Not fluently, no. But I can make myself understood in most of them."

"Remind me to bring you along on any vacations I might go on," I say with a smile.

"Emily Prentiss, tour guide, at your service," she says with a half bow and a wide grin.

* * *

I turn over for what seems like the hundredth time tonight and groan as my eyes flit to the clock on my bedside table. 5:16am – just too early to be up and milling about in the house while there are guests. I resolve to make myself some tea and enjoy an extended morning routine. I make my way to the kitchen, but stop at the entrance when I realize there's already someone up and in the kitchen. She's seated at the table, a mug of hot liquid in her left hand, and a pen in her right, her eyes flitting back and forth over a folder open in front of her. She pauses occasionally to make a note, or take a sip of the beverage.

I walk slowly toward the table and am surprised that such a highly trained FBI agent hasn't heard me approaching, but then I remember she's an instructor at the Academy now. Still, you'd think that old habits would die hard. But then I spy the ear-buds in tucked into her ears. Taking care not to spook her, I take the long route around the kitchen to allow her time to spot me in front of her. When she notices my presence she drops her pen, and pulls out her ear buds.

"I didn't wake you, did I?" she asks, her eyes already full of apology.

"No, no," I reply quickly. "Just couldn't sleep anymore, you know? Guess it's all this excitement of having guests," I say with a smile.

She smiles warmly in response. "I guess so. I hope you don't mind, I made some tea."

"Not at all, dear. In fact, I could use a mug if there's any left."

"There should be. Have a seat, I'll get it," she says, jumping out of her own seat. "How do you take it?"

"Milk and sugar," I reply. "What are you doing up so early, anyway?" I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.

"Unfortunately my recent shift in careers has led to a big increase in paperwork, and I couldn't quite get away with leaving it all for Monday," she explains.

As she grabs me a mug and pours me some tea, my attention is drawn to the music still playing through the ear buds. I smile when I recognize the song.

"You're a jazz fan?" I ask.

"I'm sorry?" she says in confusion. I point to the ear buds. "Oh, right. Yeah. My grandfather was a big fan, and he introduced me to it. I've loved it ever since."

"Derek's father was a big swing and jazz fan," I say, my lips curling into a fond smile.

"Really?" she says as she places the mug of tea in front of me and sits down at the table once more.

I nod, "He introduced me to all the greats, and a few of his favourite unknowns. He always used to say you could judge a person by what they thought about cops, kids, and jazz."

"Well I happen to be pretty supportive of law enforcement, love kids, and clearly am fond of jazz. So what does that make me?"

"In his eyes, perfect," I say with a chuckle that she joins in with.

"What was he like?" she asks before taking a long sip of her tea.

My expression turns thoughtful and I exhale a large breath.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-," she says quickly.

"Oh no, dear. I just haven't spoken about him in a while. I don't mind, I like remembering the good times," I say with a smile, interrupting her efforts at backtracking. "He was an amazing man, a real charmer – not a whole lot different from Derek, actually. He had the same lopsided grin when he wanted something and the same million dollar smile when something went his way."

She smiles and nods in recognition.

"He was a bit of a joker, always pulling pranks on his partner at work and horsing around with Derek and the girls when he was home. I remember a few times when Derek was still a baby he'd come home after a long and terrible day, turned on the radio and swept me into his arms, dancing me around this very kitchen."

"He sounds like a wonderful man," she says with a smile.

"He was," I say thoughtfully. "He would've liked you."

"Oh? Just because I passed his test?"

I laugh, "That would've gotten you in the door, but your sense of humour would've let you stay. That and how you handle Derek."

She grins, "Well, someone has to keep him in check, otherwise his ego would crush him and everyone around him."

"Speaking of my darling boy, how long have you two been together?"

Her eyes widen slightly before she shakes her head. "I should've known we wouldn't be able to hide it from you. Almost a month."

"I knew it," I say triumphantly. "I knew you two would get together." She blushes in response and buries her face in her hands.

"How long have you known?" she asks, lifting her head from her hands.

"Since you came to visit a year ago."

A surprised expression appears on her face. "That long?"

I nod.

"But we weren't even together- Goodness, did _everyone_ know that long ago?"

I shrug. "Maybe, maybe not. But you can bet your ass they know now, sweetheart."

She groans. "So much for keeping it low-key. How did you know?"

"Mother's intuition."

We settle into silence as we each sip our tea and allow the quiet sounds of the jazz music still playing to permeate the air. The sun begins to creep above the horizon and a few rays of light make their way through the kitchen window.

"What was your husband's name?" she asks suddenly.

The confusion must be plain on my face, because she elaborates. "Derek never told me. Actually, we haven't really talked about him at all, and I was just wondering."

"Benjamin," I say. "But he usually went by Benny."

She smiles. "Seems fitting."

"How do you mean?"

"There've been some pretty big Benny's in jazz and swing music over the years: Benny Goodman, Benny Carter, Benny Golson… He's in some pretty good company, I'd say."

I smile, "Yeah, I guess he is."

"Thank you, Fran. For everything."

"Everything?"

"For this weekend, for taking the time to get to know me, for raising such an amazing man, and for that weekend last year."

"My pleasure, Emily. You're important to Derek, so you're important to me."

Her face lights up once more as a smile dances on her lips and her eyes twinkle. It occurs to me that just the night before I'd seen the same expression on Derek's face after she finished telling a story. There's hope for those grandbabies yet, I think.

* * *

_I'd love to hear your thoughts/impressions on this one, if you have the time._

_I had a completely different conversation written between these two, but I totally got stuck on what to name Derek's dad (I'm a bit of a stickler for details...), and out of frustration ignored it for a few weeks. I came back to it, threw on a a jazz/swing playlist to get my creative juices flowing, and one Benny Goodman song later I had not only his name, but an entirely new conversation (and one which I like a whole lot more)._

_Finally, if anyone has any suggestions or ideas for future conversations, my ears are wide open._


	33. Mate

_As always, thanks for the reviews on the last chapter. Your feedback is always appreciated._

_Another new perspective in this one: Gideon. Of course, this means we're jumping way back to when Prentiss first joined the team. It's tagged to the intriguing "Lessons Learned" episode from season 2._

_The idea for this conversation came from the best reviewer a writer could ask for, the fantastic Annber03._

_Happy reading (=_

* * *

_"Mistrust is the most necessary characteristic of the Chess player" – Siegbert Tarrasch_

"Mate," I say after I move my queen.

Reid lets out a small huff of frustration. "I quit. Yield, surrender, capitulate. I'm gonna take a nap."

I turn my attention to her and find her looking out the window of the jet, a blank expression on her face.

"Prentiss," I say, and she turns her head to face me.

"Sir?"

"You play?" I ask. I can tell she takes the invitation for exactly what it is – an acceptance of her, albeit one which is careful and guarded, and an opportunity to get to know her. A person's approach to a chess match can reveal a lot about them, I've found.

"Yes sir, I play," she answers with a small, appreciative smile.

We reset the board and begin the match. Minutes pass with no conversation, and silence envelopes the jet, save for the constant hum of the engine and Reid's intermittent snores. As she contemplates her next move, her eyes studiously focused on the board, my mind goes over what exactly I know about Emily Prentiss and how she came to be here.

After Elle's less than peaceful departure from the unit, we'd gotten stuck into some kind of limbo. We were still functioning at a high level, and it wasn't that we were painfully missing an agent, but there was _something_ missing, that much I couldn't deny. It wasn't to the point that replacing her was on the table, and it certainly wasn't something Hotch and I had discussed at any point. Of course we'd probably need to replace her eventually, but there was time to do that. There was time to find the person who would fit, and complement the already well-working machine that is the BAU. After all, the applicant pool is never small, with dozens of hopefuls throwing their hats into the ring, even when there isn't an opening. But suddenly, and entirely too soon after Elle's departure, Hotch is asking if I'd approved a transfer, and she came into the fold.

She moves a bishop, and I slide my queen over, leaving her to ponder her next move.

I have any number of reservations and a strong feelings of apprehension about this woman. For one thing, she mysteriously appeared right after the debacle with Elle, and that timing can't be a thing of pure coincidence. I know for a fact Strauss has had her eye on taking down the current team, Hotch and me in particular, for a long time and Prentiss' introduction could be a part of that. We've been dealing with Strauss' efforts at subtle manipulation for months now, that isn't the issue. The issue is that without a semblance of trust between its members, this team can't function properly.

Her eyes jump up from the board and narrow ever so slightly at my scrutinizing gaze. She drops her gaze and moves a pawn. I consider the board for just a moment before capturing her pawn with my knight. She doesn't frown, or react in any overt way, but continues sliding her eyes over the board, considering her options.

I lean back and fold my hands as my mind continues to process the facts.

Her file notes that she's been in the Bureau for ten years, riding a desk doing analysis work in a few different departments. Ordinarily the lack of field experience would bristle me, but given the exceptions that were granted to Reid in his basic training, it's hardly a fair argument against her. Still, it's something to consider – Elle was a well-trained and experienced agent, profiling skills aside.

Her mother is a career politician, having held numerous foreign ambassador postings with the government, and enjoyed much success in Washington politics. This means she enjoyed a privileged childhood, and makes the fact that she attended Yale not altogether surprising. That being said, her graduation from Yale summa cum laude is an impressive feat that few can claim, but intelligence alone does not make a good agent.

Her family's background in politics is a cause for some worry. It's possible that Strauss and her mother have crossed paths before, and if so that would make Emily the perfect candidate for Strauss to manipulate. A promise of support and string pulling for her to climb the ranks in exchange for information would be an easy sell for an ambitious Ambassador's daughter.

She picks up another pawn and captures my rook. I scan the board for a minute before sliding my other rook a few spaces forward. Her eyes don't leave the board, but I'm sure she's aware of my continued intense scrutiny.

It occurs to me that perhaps I'm focusing too heavily on the potential negatives of her presence, no doubt a consequence of her being assigned to the unit without me or Hotch signing off on it. To be fair, she'd demonstrated her skill with languages from the outset, translating that Arabic message on the fly, and her file notes that she's fluent in several other languages as well, but then again we're not looking for a translator in the BAU. That being said, her familiarity with human behaviour paired with her knowledge of numerous languages could potentially be helpful, especially considering that our success with this very interrogation _really _began with her knowledge of the nuances of his speech. But that is not enough to convince me she is the right fit for this team.

I'd given into Hotch's idea of taking her with grudgingly. I like to have a period of observation before really breaking in new agents on the team. I didn't get that with her, and it still irks me, despite her valuable contributions on this case. I suppose only time will tell who this woman really is.

I let my mind relax and focus more intently on the board in front of us, letting the swirling thoughts of the countless possibilities her presence might represent dissipate. She grabs her king and moves it diagonally, despite not being in any immediate danger of being in check. Interesting.

"You said you grew up in several Middle Eastern countries," I say, breaking our silence.

Her eyes shoot up from the board and meet my gaze, revealing a surprised expression. "Sir?" she replies somewhat cautiously, no doubt aware of my previous focus on profiling her.

"At the briefing you mentioned growing up in several Middle Eastern countries," I clarify.

"Yes, sir," she replies. Her incessant use of "sir" is another strike against her – brown-nosing will get her absolutely nowhere with me, or Hotch for that matter. Then again, maybe I'm being too harsh. I am, after all, her superior, and her spot on this team is far from solidified.

"Which ones?" I ask as I move a pawn. Maybe it's in search of more information to piece together a better profile of her, or maybe it's out of curiosity. I'm not quite sure which.

"Egypt, Kuwait, Oman, and a couple months in Yemen," she says before pausing for a moment to think, letting her eyes absently wander to the seat next to me. "And I think we spent some time in Israel as well," she finishes.

"Your mother's postings were primarily in the Middle East then?"

"Actually no, sir," she says as she shifts her queen. "Check."

I narrow my gaze and realize her queen is in line with my king. I move a knight to block its path.

"She was based mostly in European countries," she explains, moving a rook sideways a few spaces.

"I see. I assume that's how you picked up your language skills?" I say as I move a pawn forward to sit diagonal from her king. "Check."

Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second, but then she relaxes and nods. She reaches for her king, but then changes her mind and instead picks up her knight, capturing my pawn.

"Do you speak any other languages, sir?" she asks, her gaze settling on my face.

I shake my head, "Not fluently." I capture her queen with my bishop.

* * *

Thirty minutes later we're deep into the match, each of us playing our cards close to our chest. She has pleasantly surprised me with her skill; in fact, I wouldn't be surprised to see her beat Reid handily. We haven't delved into any more conversation, instead settling into silence that is not completely uncomfortable. Knowing we're approaching our estimated time of arrival, I search for my opportunity to close out the match. I find it in the form of my bishop.

"Check," I say, moving my bishop to trap her king. She has limited options available to her now.

I'm surprised to see a hint of a smile appear on her face for a fraction of a second before she picks up her king and takes my bishop, leaving her susceptible to checkmate in just two moves. I frown – she had been doing so well.

I move a pawn to begin to end the game, but my mind freezes as she picks up her own pawn and blocks my forward progress, any experienced chess player would avoid that move, as it leaves her even more vulnerable. I move a rook to seize the opportunity, but it was apparently exactly what she was waiting for. After a few more evasive moves by her king, she nudges her bishop a few spaces, and without any discernible expression on her face proclaims, "Mate."

I narrow my gaze slightly and then offer a small smile. "Well played," I concede. It's been a long time since someone was able to beat me at chess. And thoughts of my ego aside, any person capable of beating me at chess is one to watch. Whether she'll be a valuable addition to the team, or a significant part in its demise remains to be seen. Regardless, of one thing I was sure: there was certainly more to Emily Prentiss than meets the eye.

* * *

_I'd love to hear your thoughts/impressions... And if you have any moments of inspiration for conversations, let me know. I'm always open to bantering about where to take this story._

_A brief note, in answer to a few people who have been asking: These conversations (in my head, at least) all take place in the same universe, but are not in any semblance of an order. I write them as they pop into my head, which unfortunately leaves me with conversations jumping around from year to year. That being said, I do try to give enough context within the chapter to allow you to place it._


	34. Closure

_Thanks for all the wonderful reviews - you're the best readers a writer could ask for! Seriously._

_Big ups to the wonderfully talented Shadpup who gave me the suggestion for this one, and was patient enough to wait for me to post it._

_It's tagged to the oh-so-fantastic "Demonology" episode in season 4._

_Happy reading (=_

* * *

_"Guilt is perhaps the most painful companion to death." – Elisabeth Kübler-Ross_

"Hey Garcia!" I call as I spy her colourful outfit across the bullpen. "I need a favour."

"Anything you need, good sir. If you divulge your secret pizza sauce recipe to me," she bargains as she walks toward me.

I raise an eyebrow and shoot her an unimpressed look.

"Well it was worth a shot, wasn't it?" she says with a cheeky smile. "What can I do for you, Rossi?"

"I need Emily's home address."

"Uh, but it's- I mean, that's sorta, you know, private."

"And yet you know all of ours."

"Yeah, but I'm supposed to. It's in my job description as gatekeeper of all information."

"Penelope," I warn.

"But sir…"

"I promise you, I have her best interests at heart."

She sighs dramatically. "Okay, but I want it on record that I protested and gave it under duress," she says as she grabs a scrap of paper, scribbles an address down, and hands it over.

"You don't have to look it up?" I ask, a bit surprised.

"For a rumoured ladies' man you sure aren't up on all things female. Of course I know where she lives – we have ladies' nights, duh!"

I shake my head and chuckle lightly. "Of course. Thank you," I say sincerely. I shoot her a grateful smile and turn to leave, but find her hand gripping my arm tightly, preventing me from moving.

"Hey Rossi? Make sure my crime-fighter is okay. I don't like it when my babies are… you know… not okay. Make sure she knows she isn't alone. You make sure she knows we're all here for her. And if she needs anything at all-"

I place my hand over hers and squeeze gently, shooting her a comforting smile and nodding gently. "I will."

* * *

"Rossi. Hey," she says as she swings open the door to her apartment. "What's up?"

My eyes sweep over her quickly, noting the lack of put-togetherness that I have come to associate with Emily Prentiss. It's not that she's completely dishevelled, but it seems she hasn't put the same care into her appearance that she usually does. My eyes notice a depth of sadness in her eyes, and I swear I can see evidence of tears, despite her best efforts to box it all away. Considering all that I'd learned about her in the past few days, it doesn't surprise me that she'd give in to her swirling emotions over Matthew, and of course it would be behind closed doors.

Before I can respond to her question, I see her frown and a skeptical expression settles onto her face.

"Aren't you supposed to be working?" she asks.

"Paperwork day," I reply with a shrug.

"Still," she says. "We generally have to actually _do_ the paperwork..."

"I know it's not for another hour or so, but I figured I would offer some company."

She exhales loudly, knowing exactly what I'm referring to. "I'm not going."

My eyes widen slightly in surprise and my expressions shifts to one of confusion. "You're not?"

She shakes her head sadly. "His parents wouldn't appreciate my presence."

I raise an eyebrow in response. It's not like her to particularly care what other people think – this last case was proof enough that if she believed something strongly enough she would go after it, regardless of what others said or thought, even if it meant arguing with her boss and colleagues.

"You met his parents, how do you think it would go over?" she offers in explanation.

"But why do you care?"

She takes a few breaths, and seems to try and settle on an answer in her head before responding, "Because he was their only son. They deserve to bury him in peace."

"And what about you? You were his friend and-"

"I hadn't spoken to him in years, Rossi," she interrupts.

"He was still important to you, Emily. You deserve a chance to say goodbye to him."

"Not after what he went through because of me."

"Emily you don't know-"

"Yes I do!" she says firmly, the emotion she'd been keeping tightly locked up bubbling over. Her eyes widen at her own outburst and she takes a moment to collect herself before continuing. "Everything went downhill for him after that. He started using to escape, and then began questioning the very thing his whole life was built on. We drifted apart, eventually stopped talking altogether, and then went our separate ways when mother got a new assignment. I knew he was going through hell and I didn't do anything to help him. He saved my life, but I didn't do anything to save his," she finishes, regret and sadness in her tone.

Her eyes seem to convey a sea of emotions, and yet appear devoid of life at the same time.

"Did you give him the drugs?"

"Rossi, I know what you're-"

"Did you give him the drugs? I repeat in a stronger tone, ignoring her protest.

"No," she admits grudgingly. "But-"

"Did you tell him to question his faith?" I interrupt once more.

"Rossi, I-"

"Did you force him to ask those questions of his beliefs?"

She glares before answering. "No."

I don't voice it, I don't have to, but the conclusion from the answers to those questions hangs heavily in the silence that follows. But I know she doesn't accept it, so I press on.

"Did you love him?" I ask.

Her eyes grow wide and she blinks several times quickly before squeezing her eyes shut, nodding slowly, and swallowing the lump that was surely lodged in her throat.

"You may not have spoken to him in years, but you can still say goodbye to the boy you loved. He deserves that. You deserve that."

She doesn't respond, and I feel compelled to drive the point home even further. "He was important to you, Emily. You told me he made you feel worthy of love and friendship. He had a big impact on you, and was a big part of your life. You deserve to have a chance to say goodbye to him."

She finally responds, after another moment of careful thought. "Maybe you're right. But I don't need to do it at his funeral."

"Then we'll go after they've finished," I say. "But until then, let's get you back to being the Emily Prentiss I know."

* * *

A hearty lunch, cup of coffee, shower and change of clothes later, we're in the car and on the way to the cemetery. As I wind the car through the snow-covered streets, I can see her pick at her nails and bounce her leg – both telltale signs of agitation. Every so often I hear her breathe out heavily as she shakes her head ever so slightly. With anyone else, I'd reach over and grab their hand to offer some comfort, and provide an anchor of sorts, but with Emily I know that's not what she needs right now. Instead, I stay quiet and keep my eyes on the road, giving her as much privacy as our close proximity allows.

I park the car and turn off the ignition, but make no move to exit the vehicle. I turn to face her and I find that her eyes are wide and her gaze is fixed on her hands in her lap, while her leg still bounces. I see her swallow a few times, no doubt to try and banish the emotion threatening to spill and build up the necessary courage to go through with this. After a few minutes, she carefully removes her seatbelt, opens the door, and steps out. I follow suit, slipping off my own seat belt and joining her next to the car.

We stand there for several minutes, her gaze fixed on the ground in front of her and her nervous energy seeping out the cracks of her carefully constructed walls. The snow continues falling gently, covering the already white ground with more layers of flakes.

"I don't know if I can do this," she whispers finally, breaking the silence.

Her admission of weakness gives me the opportunity to give some comfort, and so, keeping my eyes forward, I reach over and grab her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Words aren't needed – everything I would've and could've said was communicated with that gesture.

Another minute passes before I hear her let out a shaky breath and then feel her squeeze my hand slightly. She's ready.

We make our way slowly and carefully, her hand gripping mine tightly. When we finally reach the headstone bearing his name, she drops my hand and steps forward. I make no move to follow – this is her moment now. I watch as she squats down and gently brushes the small bit of snow from the stone before sitting down cross-legged. It's almost as though she's a teenager again, sitting in front of him on a bed, chatting about anything and everything. She reaches her hand out and traces his name with her fingers. It is an intimate gesture, and the few tears that fall to the ground beneath her only serve to confirm this.

I watch as she swipes the tears away and briefly turns her gaze to the grey sky to compose herself once more. It is a few moments before she speaks, but when she does, the words leave her lips so softly I struggle to hear them over the rustling and creaking of the tree branches around us.

"Hey, Matty. It's me, Emmy." I can hear a small smile in her voice.

I hear her breathe a few shaky breaths in and out before she continues. "I don't really know what I'm supposed to say... or if I'm supposed to say anything at all. But...Matty? Thank you."

She pauses, and I can see her walls are completely down, her emotions in plain view for the first time since I've known her. I can't help but think that she's completely unaware that I can hear her conversation. I briefly consider stepping away to give her that privacy, but knowing her streak of feeling she has to shoulder punishments for things she is not responsible for, I stay put.

She lets out a long, shaky exhale before continuing. "You saved my life, in more ways than you ever knew."

I hear her choke back a small sob and breathe out another shaky stream of air. "And I'm sorry that your life unravelled because of my insecurities. I'm sorry I screwed up your life. I- I wish I could have saved you from your demons the same way you saved me from mine. You deserved better from me."

Her voice is barely a whisper, and I can hear cracks of emotion. She sounds far from the confident and strong woman she has become, and instead sounds a lot like the lost 15 year old she described to me.

"I didn't deserve you, but I'm so glad I got you. I know things got a bit nasty after all of it went down, but I never stopped loving you. I really hope you knew that."

She pauses again, this time to stand up. She takes a moment to smooth out her pants and coat, and brush the snow from them before she speaks again.

"I'm so sorry, Matty. I'm- I wish I- I-"

Emotion overcomes her and she is unable to speak as she chokes on the emotion of it all. I step forward quickly and wrap my arms around her, holding her tightly against me. After remaining stiff for just a moment, she relaxes into my embrace and lets herself go. Tears flow freely, and I feel her body shake with small sobs. She's finally letting out the emotion she's held inside for almost 20 years.

"Shh," I whisper. "It's okay. He knows, bella. Trust me, he knows." I rub her back soothingly, and continue holding her tightly. We stay that way until her tears stop and I feel her breathing return to normal. Slowly I release my hold on her, and I watch as she straightens her coat, dusts the little bit of snow off of it once more, and wipes the tears from her face.

"Thank you," she says, as her gaze meets mine.

I smile reassuringly. "Of course, bella."

She turns to face the headstone once more, but stays silent. It's as though she's trying desperately to convey everything else her mind wants to say with just one look, because she knows speech is beyond her right now. She stays frozen to the spot, seemingly unable to move – stuck in some sort of emotional limbo.

Just as I begin to wonder if I should step in, she whispers a soft, tender "goodbye" and turns to face me.

"Come on, I've got some 30-year old Scotch that seems just about right for this occasion," I say, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. There's still tension in her body, and I can sense emotion is still threatening to spill out of her, but the familiar determination that I associate with her has appeared once more. Maybe, and I certainly hope it is the case, in some very small way, she got some closure.

* * *

_If you have the chance, I'd love to hear your thoughts and/or impressions on this one. I must have rewritten it a dozen times before I was satisfied with it. Truly maddening, I tell you._

_As always, if you have suggestions/ideas for a conversation, let me know. I always love to banter about where to take this story._


	35. Leaving Explanations

_Again, thanks for the kind words and reviews. I really appreciate them. Apologies for sending some of you into waves of worry with the title of the last chapter. I honestly never even considered it might come across as a "final chapter" to the story. Trust me, when that time comes, I'll give you forewarning. And I've no immediate plans to wrap this up - there are way too many conversations still to be written!_

_We're jumping back into the always fascinating mind of Dr. Reid for this one._

_Happy reading (=_

* * *

_"I want you to be everything that's you, deep at the centre of your being." – Confucius_

"Hey, are you okay with pasta?" I hear her call from the kitchen.

"Yeah, that's fine. Whatever you've got," I reply quickly, turning my attention back to my previous task of scanning her bookshelves.

Despite my knowledge of her love of literature, I'm still a bit surprised to find a collection of books that would rival my own. There's a fairly wide range of genres filling the vast shelves, from classic literature to some more modern novels on a variety of subjects. There's a fairly large collection of children's literature, clearly held onto from her childhood, and some textbooks covering subjects ranging from psychology to biology to classic languages. There's also some foreign literature, a variety of dictionaries in different languages, and a reasonably impressive collection of classic philosophical works (most of which are in their original languages) filling the shelves. My eyes, however, are drawn to a small collection of books that sit separate from the others. I squat down to peruse them.

"Find something you like?"

Her voice startles me, and I spin quickly to find her standing in the doorway watching me. She grins widely, having caught me with a guilty look on my face, probably not unlike a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"That's my Vonnegut collection," she says, noting the objects of my scrutiny. "Most are signed copies, and a few are first-editions. I thought I'd lost them in the shuffle of my stint in Europe after Doyle. Turns out Morgan had snuck in here and taken them along with the rest of my books before my stuff got boxed up and dealt with. When I got back he confessed and returned them to me. What he didn't tell me was that he'd added in a signed first-edition of Mother Night."

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "A signed, first edition? That must be worth-"

"A lot. I know. I tried to give it back to him, but he insisted I keep it. Called it my "welcome home" present."

"I didn't get you anything when you came back," I say in realization. "Was I supposed to?" I ask, not quite sure what social protocol dictates in such a situation.

She chuckles softly. "No. And don't feel bad, there's not exactly a handbook for how to deal with those types of situations."

I smile. "No, I guess there isn't."

"Now c'mon handsome, you're gonna help me with dinner."

"Are you sure? JJ tried to teach me once, and I nearly set her kitchen on fire."

She holds in a chuckle. "I'm sure. It's about time you learned the practical side of cooking."

"I've read all the major books-"

"I said _practical_, Reid."

I grin in embarrassment. "Right."

* * *

An hour later, having long finished our meal, we sit and enjoy some conversation, each of us nursing a mug of coffee. We jump from topic to topic, discussing everything from literature, to the difficulties in translating philosophical works, to Doctor Who. But as pleasant as the day has been – chess in the park, a home-cooked meal, and lively conversation – I find my mind swinging back to the paperwork I'd spied on her desk a few days ago.

"Are you leaving?" I ask, filling a silence that had settled into our once thriving conversation.

She blinks in surprise. "What?"

"Are you leaving the BAU?" I clarify.

She lets out a long exhale and wets her lips before answering. "Yes."

This time it is me who blinks in surprise. As much as I'd suspected it might be true, I had refused to allow my mind to come to that conclusion. I'd shrugged it off, and ignored it.

"Reid," she says sadly, responding to my reaction.

"Why?" I ask quietly. I can't help the almost brokenness from bleeding into my tone. I curse inwardly. After everything with Doyle I swore to not be the broken one anymore, to not have to need others, and yet here I am, practically shouting through my tone that I need her to stay.

She tilts her head and looks at me sadly. "I need this. It hasn't been the same since I got back, and maybe I knew it never could be, but I still tried my hardest to make it be the same. And every single time it isn't, something inside me aches, and gets that little bit closer to breaking me."

I'm shocked by her honest and open response. It's not something I'm used to with her.

"But why leave? We're your family." I can't fathom how leaving the ones who would support you through anything would be beneficial.

She smiles sadly before answering. "That's part of it though. I love you guys, and you're right, you are my family. But… if I don't step away now and make a change, all I'll have left is painful memories of how it doesn't feel like it used to. And I'm afraid that _will_ break me."

My eyes drop to the table, and I begin to wring my hands together. My mind races, scanning our interactions and her behaviour over the last months, looking for clues that might've led to this.

"How long have you felt this way?"

"Just about since I got back," she offers. "I was so happy to be back, but at the same time I felt horribly guilty over what I did to you all, and what I'd put you through. All I wanted was to get things to how they used to be. I did absolutely everything I could to fix things, but this feeling stuck around."

Things begin clicking in my mind – connections between behaviour and situations, and instances that were blatant clues if only I'd been looking for them. My face falls as I realize I hadn't picked up on any of it. I hadn't realized how miserable she'd been. I'd lost her once, and then failed her again.

"Spencer," she says, reaching across the table for my hands. My gaze snaps up at her use of my first name. Her tone is apologetic, and reminds me of a mother comforting a child. I reach forward and allow her to grasp my hands tightly.

"This isn't something you could have fixed if you'd noticed. I'm-" she takes a breath before continuing. "I'm not okay, and if I'm being honest, I haven't been for a long time. I just can't do it anymore – I can't try to be who I was before. But I'm not leaving you. You guys are still my family, and nothing is going to change that."

I'm struck by how much emotion I can see on her face, and especially in her eyes. It's more than I think I've ever seen from her. Her expression is sad, and her eyes seem to be pleading with me to understand.

"Where are you going?"

"Not far," she says simply. "Just to the Academy."

"The Academy?" I ask in confusion.

"Yeah, you're looking at their newest instructor."

A grin spreads on my face, and I give her hands a squeeze. A smile of relief settles onto her face.

Suddenly it clicks. She's spent her entire life doing things for others and making decisions with everyone else's best interests at heart. She put her career at risk to find answers about Matthew Benton for John Cooley, she risked her life to save Declan, she went after Doyle to save us, she tried to reintegrate into her old life for us. Her decision to leave the team is her listening to her own heart, and giving herself what she needs. For the first time, she's putting her own needs before those of everyone else. Though many would see it as a selfish decision, I see it as yet another brave act.

"Are we okay?" she asks, concern settling into her eyes once more.

It strikes me that for all our interactions over the years, and the ups and downs that we've had, the times I've had to comfort _her_ are few and far between. In fact, I can't recall any particular instance where she's needed comfort from me. Her question echoes in the silence, and I realize I've wandered into my mind, leaving her in a state of worry.

"Yeah, we're good," I say with a smile and a small nod. She breathes out a sigh of relief as she closes her eyes briefly.

She tilts her head slightly and shoots me a thankful smile. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For understanding."

"Of course, Emily. I trust you, and I'm happy that you're making decisions with your own well-being in mind. It's about time you put yourself first."

"Thank you," she says again.

"You said that already."

"Yeah, but this one's for you just...being you."

"You said that already too, remember?" I reply, remembering a phone call from almost a year before.

"Way to ruin the moment, Spencer," she groans, bringing her hand to her face in disbelief.

I grin sheepishly. "Let me make it up to you. Let's go for dessert. That ice cream self-serve place isn't far from here."

She smiles and chuckles heartily. "Again with the dairy?"

* * *

_If you have the time, I'd love to hear your thoughts. And of course if you have ideas/suggestions for future conversations, my ears are open. I make no promises, but they certainly all get thrown onto my "potential conversations" list._


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